Synaesthesia Magazine Thunder, Lightning | Page 35

Ned stood before the bowl, eyes sparkly and new, legs splayed. ‘That’s not ladylike.’ I reprimanded, so he curtsied. ‘There’s not enough things,’ he said. We surveyed the two items. I fetched a lemon, sliced it in half, cut my finger. Blood dripped onto the plate, veining salmon pink with sherbet. So pretty! It would mix. Ned was warming to our theme. Opened the store cupboard, crammed his arms with tinned tomato, pears and condensed milk. ‘No solids …’ I was the Master of Ceremonies, so began with a sliver of milk, enough to coat the bowl’s bottom. Next the lemon juice and blood. We sat on tippy-toes, hips balanced, eyes down. The citrus shot the milk like eels through a river. My stomach shifted. ‘S’il vous plait?’ Ned’s hands were trembling around the carton, he was breathing fast, wanting to tip it. ‘Just the tiniest …’ Splash by splash, the juice flowed and snotty blobs rose up, a creamy volcano in Hesper’s bowl. The dog sniffed, wanting breakfast. ‘Shoo,’ I said, and she sat on her bottom, too. The phone was tinging in my ear, too loud, I knew it would be Mam. Checking up. ‘Wait for me.’ I signalled to Ned, scudding off into the hall, anxious to say Hello and Goodbye. He was standing over the curdle stirring it with a stick. ‘I added more …’ he said. ‘Rosewater and vanilla!’ I screamed, and we splashed them too, palest pink and crystal transparency. There were fumes rising, burning and heady, making me woozy as I surveyed the bowl. ‘Une boisson fraiche!’ Ned grandly widened his arms. His eyes were black and tiny, hands on his hips, button nose twitching. ‘We defy it! Curdled milk won’t make you sick!’ Triumphant, I tipped the contents straight into my mouth. As the burning spread like a lightning flash, sharking down my throat, flaming my tongue, the kitchen spinning to a blackened clap of thunder, I saw the bottle of toilet bleach, nestled next to the milk. Ned’s hand. Outstretched in horror.