It could’ve been the kitchen of a showroom. The hobs were unsullied, the surfaces spotless. The floor sparkled with freshly-mopped glory. All except for the chunk of pineapple that rested upon it, surrounded by a tiny acid puddle of its own juices. It was the only sign of life in the sterile room, this sickly yellow sickle, this reaping of a slovenly midnight dalliance.
The half-moon slice lay there, splayed like it had lost the will to live. If it had eyes they would be open, unblinking, staring at the waves of plaster upon the ceiling, half lit by an outside lamppost floors below. Perhaps it would be contemplating its fate, its escape from the dharma wheel of digestion, defecation and resurrection. Was this pale green tiling its Nirvana, its being-without-suffering? No, this was surely a false enlightenment. This was not a place above the wheel. This was falling from it. This was stagnancy, being-without-movement. This was worse than death. Worse than defecation.
The buzzing of a fly interrupted the quiet, which balked at the intrusion. The early morning hush could only glare impotently, forbidden from breaking its own silence. The rasp of wings could be traced in their tainted trajectory — For naught but a second the drone would pierce the curtain of silence before it wafted back to stillness, then for some moments the darkness would go undisturbed whilst the fly corrected its co-ordinates. Then the curtain would be torn open once more as it raced ever closer to the scented prize.
The fly landed on the fruit, the squelch of its feet inaudible even to the sensitive hush. The pineapple chunk was completely unable to protest this imposition. The fly, overcome with glee, vomited copiously upon the delicate yellow membrane. Perhaps this was of some small satisfaction; being eaten even by an insect was to step back onto the wheel, after all.
The fly turned, tiny crystalline eyes flecked with madness and whatever insectoid joy it might know, and expelled another torrent of aching hot sick. When the frenzied food-lust of the fly had reached a heady peak, it thrust downward into the seething depths. Oh, Elysium! The union of fly and fruit was complete. The straw-like tongue dug deep into the mulch, and…
The swish-swish of shuffling feet cut the perfect moment to ribbons. Startled, the fly withdrew its turgid proboscis and launched itself into the waning night, never to be seen again.
With the sound of an elephant kiss, the refrigerator door smacked open and its unearthly glow poured outward. It illuminated the kitchen, the tiles, and that twinkling, glistening pineapple chunk. The silhouette grunted. Was it a grunt of disapproval to see such a sore defiling this pristine place?
The question was to be immediately answered. Thin digits stretched eagerly, and too-long fingernails skittered across the tile for purchase. In a few creaky movements the prize was seized. Sweet yellow flesh was trapped within salty pink.
The chunk did not even experience maceration, just a questing tongue forcing it to the back of the throat and to oblivion beyond. That same tongue lapped delicately at the hand that fed it, flicking up the remnants of juice and fly vomit that had deigned to stay fast upon the palm.
With the snap of a switch, the strip-light on the ceiling clinked and pinged to life. The shambling figure turned to the interloper who had come upon his dark feasting, and for the first time his face could be seen. It defied almost all description, save for the sprouting red beard and clump of unbarbered hair. He pushed the auburn thicket from his eyes as he rubbed them.
‘Princess,’ he croaked. ‘You’re awake?’
‘Sweetness, my pink pearl, my little prince! Of course I’m awake! How could I not be awake when you make such a racket!’ the elderly Valkyrie chided, bosom heaving with indignation. ‘You know midnight snacks are only allowed once a night! Naughty! Naughty little Prince!’
‘I’m sorry my love, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think I’d wake you. Your room is further from the kitchen than mine. And I couldn’t sleep because I was… hungry.’
‘I put the baby monitor on top of the fridge,’ she said, addressing his first issue with a jab of her finger toward a small plastic object. It was about the size of a fist with rounded edges, and was half-hidden behind the bread bin. She moved onto the second: ‘I know you have a lot to think about, but if you don’t take your pills and get a good rest, neither will I. I’ll be up all night worrying about you. And you know how cranky your princess gets without her beauty sleep, don’t you my sickness?’ She juddered in her most alluring manner. He smiled at her before returning to his default frown.
‘Yes, Princess. I was just… too sad.’
‘Oh! My poor soldier! Tell me why you were sad. I thought you didn’t leave the house today? You know how the Outside makes you feel.’
‘A boy came to the door. He said he was looking for his dad. he knocked and knocked but I was too scared to answer. He shouted for his dad, but I hid in my room and cried. What if he never found his dad? What if he’s still lost?’
‘My foul little creature,’ the Princess said. ‘Why, that was just me, playing a joke! Is that why you’ve been so quiet all day? I thought you weren’t afraid of children any more. You’ll get used to them soon enough, I’m sure.’
‘Wait,’ he said, realisation cresting upon his indescribable features. ‘What do you mean? And… why do we have a baby monitor?.’
‘We-ell,’ she replied, chins jutting out with matriarchal pride. ‘You may not be my only special little man any more!’ She waggled her brow.
‘You mean. You’re. I’m…’ and his eyes folded neatly upwards into his skull as his body folded neatly downwards onto the floor.
‘Yes, my little prince,’ beamed the Princess. ‘You’re going to be a da-da.’
* * *
By the time dawn was poking her nosy red fingers into the city’s nether territories, three tins had appeared upon the kitchen counter. The once-unadulterated worktop was begrimed with sticky yellow circles. The cans had become juice-seeping husks, plundered and purposeless. Once they had contained slices of pineapple; now the only fate they could hope for was to be threaded with a string to become a makeshift telephone, listening to and passing whispered nothings across a short distance. Or recycling.
The tins heard the pitter-patter of tiny Princess feet as they tottered beneath a giant Valkyrie body. Due to an array of unfortunate phenomena (the placement of water pipes, the long distance to the nearest mast), mobile reception was unreliable throughout the flat. The only exception was the kitchen. Thus the Princess rushed in, handset clutched to her ear.
‘Yes,’ said the Princess, ‘I’m just in the kitchen now. The reception here is dreadful, just dreadful.’
She paused. The tins could hear only the murmur of response, a quiet buzz.
‘Yes dear. I told him. We’re expecting!’
Quizzical buzz.
‘Lord no, my sweetmeat! I only said it to keep things interesting.’
Angry murmur. Pause. More angry murmuring.
‘Oh my wretched creature, I prefer to think of it as wishful thinking. It is going to have to happen quite soon, after all. My,’ she paused, and hissed the phrase as if it were a deadly secret: ‘My biological clock is ticking.’
Murmur murmur. Pause. Another buzz.
‘Yes,’ she replied, poking at the cans on the worktop with her chunky digit. ‘Oh dear! I don’t believe he’s taken it too well. He’s already eaten breakfast, lunch and dinner. No my sweetness, he’s gone out. To collect his thoughts I imagine. Isn’t it divine? My little prince must be growing up if he’s going out all alone.’
The conversation continued but the tins weren’t listening any more. The Princess rang off. She picked up the three tins, and with a sniff tossed them into the bin. There was no hope for them now. Not even the agony of recycling. An endless purgatory was all that would await them.
She opened the window, and wiped up the sticky circles with a cloth. She washed her hands, and then one more time just to be sure before drying them on paper towels and depositing those into the bin. She put on her favourite coat and teetered out of the house on bright pink high heels.
The silence that followed was only abused by the twitch of a crumpled shopping bag that had fallen from her coat pocket. She always carried at least one with her. She would be in for a terrible shock come checkout time. Crinkle-crinkle went the plastic as it tried to reassert its true form. After an hour of yearning it gave in, dead on the kitchen floor.
Just then, the front door shuddered open and slammed closed. Robotic, clumsy footsteps approached. The little prince rattled in with a bag of his own, jerkily moving as if pulled by a string nailed to his forehead. Perhaps his joints were coated in rust, which had advanced so far that it had sprouted from his face and head in russet curls. He stamped impatiently on the heels of his velcro shoes and dragged his feet from their sodden innards. He heaved the bag onto the counter, hunched shoulders protesting with a series of pops. He rustled around inside the plastic and produced another tin of pineapple slices. With the tremulous movement of one who is unpracticed in the art of leaving his bed, let alone utilising the vagaries of the kitchenette, he appropriated for himself a fork from the drawer.
Implement in hand and can in the other, the prince slid down against the wall. He became something too bony to be called a ball and too grotesque to be described as foetal. His long fingernails picked at the ring-pull attached to the lid. After several minutes of staggering ineptitude, he finally found access to his Holiest of Holies.
He consumed the slices in a rage, liquid sloshing out upon his Hawaiian shirt as he shovelled pieces of chemically-treated fruit into his person. Momentarily sated, he continued his uncomfortable crouching reverie before the refrigerating monolith, knees pressed to his chest. What ghostly thoughts flitted through that mind even he would be unable to enunciate. His expression of drowsy ennui never faltered.
When he was done he jerked to his feet and placed the tin upon the counter-top beside the abandoned bag. He marched out, again with that struggling gait. The slam of a bedroom door indicated the termination of his journey.
A trill of melancholic notes whispered through the slammed door. The sounds of an amateur piano player trailed through to the kitchen. Fits of music dampened the air. What the little prince could not say with words, he attempted to speak through earnest, clumsy melody. Words are like music; eighty-eight keys can produce countless novel tunes, just as a limited vocabulary can produce countless novel utterances. With the piano to articulate, he slurred through an incomprehensible paragraph.
~fin
