She sits rigid on the couch, staring at the blank wall. She stares at the brown bottle on the lounge room table in front of her, thinking. She is not even waiting for spiders; she’s just thinking.

She’s remembering the afternoon with Yoni, what was said and what was not. Most things were said. It was a good afternoon, she thinks. Good.

She remembers how Yoni laughed a lot. She made Yoni laugh. They talked about old times, and new times they hoped they’d have. Yoni suggested a big meeting with everyone, maybe a “welcome home” party of sorts. It had sounded like such a good idea at the time.

A sudden thought hits her and she shoves it away, disliking it. Soon she feels it worming it’s way back in, and it brings its friends, pellets of doubt that scatter through her.

She remembers a moment when Yoni’s smile had seemed almost forced. Her laugh had not sounded as carefree and relaxed after a while. More brittle than anything. Then there were signs of restlessness, like tossing hair over shoulders, or drumming fingers on table-tops. Even earlier there’d been signs, like during that first phone call.

The more Dara thinks about it, the more it seems that Yoni had had a terrible time this afternoon, and had kept it to herself.

--------------

Days pass, and the dirt congeals on Dara, because she stays away from the shower. On the third day the phone rings, and she thinks, If I’d died, no one would’ve found me for three whole days. She reaches out and picks up the receiver, uncomfortably aware of how her scalp itches. “Hullo?”

“Dara!”

She pauses. “Who’s that?”

“Who’s that? It’s me, Bronny! Where the hell have you been, Dara? I heard from Yoni, she told me you guys caught up, I can’t believe you didn’t invite me, how could you leave it for so long, I thought you were even dead, Dara! Hello, are you listening?”

Dara is grinning, her discomfort forgotten. “Yes, I am. Sorry. Was just waiting for you to shut up.”

--------------

Everything’s changing so quickly. She’s racing downhill on a brakeless bicycle. Her legs are going faster than the rest of her. Everything’s shaken up, different, new, changed.

That’s why she’s just sitting still, wishing the world would follow suit and that everything would pause for a second, or forever.

The phone has rung five times today. It’s enough to give her a nail-in-the-brain style headache. The Panadeine doesn’t work, maybe because it’s not Forte. When Kate took the Forte she obviously forgot that she wasn’t the only Kenwick with head problems.

Dara starts as her newfound companion, the telephone, shrieks, demanding to be silenced. She lets it ring five times, just to steel her nerves, before picking up.

--------------

‘If plans were wings I’d be flying high.’

She stares at that last sentence, wondering why it irritates her so much. It’s just a doodle; nothing threatening. It’s not as if she’s trying to write a poem. She’s just stating what’s fact. I have plans, she thinks, dropping the pen in defeat.

She glances towards the phone, feeling increasingly ill.

“Oh, go away,” she groans. The phone stays silent.

--------------

If the phone rings she has to face facts. If it doesn’t ring she’s going to die alone. Which one is worse?

Maybe Kate is the person to ask.

--------------

“Hi.”

“Oh, hi there.” Kate sounds tired, and Dara feels better about what she’s going to do.

“I just wanted to say…um…I’m sorry.”

This is one of the loudest silences she’s ever heard. Kate eventually says, “For what?”

“Uh, I’ve just been dumb. So. Sorry.”

Kate laughs. “Hmm. Well. Alright.”

“Yeah.”

Dara wraps the phone cord around her fingers, releases it, rubs her arm, shifts her weight to the other leg.

“Hmm, um…okay. I actually have to get going. But hey, thanks.”

“Sure. See ya.”

She is just about to hang up when Kate says, “Really. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

She replaces the receiver then steps back, staring at it sadly. It’s a different sadness to what it might’ve been a week ago. The situation with Kate isn’t quite as hopeless, even if she still feels powerless to fix things.

In the lounge the television snickers at her and the brown bottle stands on the table.

--------------

This room seems occupied and cosy, not vast as it has before. Glancing at the bottle on the table Dara realises she hasn’t thought of it for hours.

--------------

She stands in the kitchen, indecisive.

Some of the food she took out the other day is still there on the bench. She studies the peanut butter jar closely. Savings brand. Tastes as good as anything, though.

She grabs the jar and heads for the cupboard, placing it inside next to the Milo and Ovaltine.

Empty jars, a sparse assortment of food on the bench: it all tells her she’s going to have to go grocery shopping.

--------------

She sits alone, but it doesn’t grieve her. Kate and Mack are coming for dinner in two days’ time. What a crazy notion.

The apology she made hasn’t been mentioned. Kate has forgotten it exists, but for Dara it hangs in the air all around, the sole cause of her nervousness these days. What will she say to Kate’s face?

She sits at the kitchen table, shading in the cheek-bones of the intricate, long-fanged fairy with her biro. She drops the biro and stands, heading straight for the hallway and grabbing her keys.

--------------

The dinner, when it comes, goes strangely. There is a lot of metaphorical silence: they all speak, but about nothing memorable.

Dara decides at first that the discomfort is all because of Mack. If he weren’t here, the conversation would be flowing. Right? Wrong, she soon admits to herself.

Why did Kate want this dinner? Had she anticipated an evening full of small talk?

“Hey, Dara, we better get going.” Kate tosses a scrunched up napkin onto her plate and scoots back. “It’s kinda late.”

Dara nods slowly, aware of Mack’s expectant gaze on her. His black hair falls over his eyes, emphasising the depth of the shadows there. Inbred.

“Yeah. Okay.”

Wordlessly they go about clearing up, or at least starting to. Their efforts are half-hearted. Silently the three of them head out into the hallway, Mack leading the way. Dara nearly runs into Kate who pauses to whisper with Mack. He nods, touches her arm, and walks out the front door. She then turns to face Dara.

“Seriously, Daz. Thanks. This was a good night.”

Why lie about it? Everyone knows it sucked.

“I’m glad to see that you really are…better.” Another pause, then she continues. “I was really concerned about you for a while.”

“I was concerned about you.” Dara doesn’t say that she still is concerned about Kate—still mistrusts Mack.

“Hah, why?” Kate shrugs. “Never mind. I better get going.”

They walk to the door together and step out onto the porch. Kate says, “The house is looking good. Nice and spic.”

Dara nods. “Thanks.”

“Anyway. We’ll be back, I’m sure. For dinner, I mean. That was good spag bol. You should invite some friends over sometime. Make use of this place.”

“Yeah. I might.”

“Okay.” Kate smiles again. “Well. See ya ‘round, huh? And good onya.”

They hesitate, go to hug each other, pull back, and finally hug anyway. The embrace is stiff and tentative, better than a slap.

“See ya,” Dara calls as Kate ducks out the door. She stands and watches for a while, listening to Mack’s car chug off. Then she steps back inside.