Maybe she shouldn’t have quit work. Never built an apiary. Would’ve been better joining a gym. Cooking. Reading books that lived in corners of her home. Would’ve been better to speak what he said in the elevator, his voice curling green, twisting to lick her ears.

Driving my Pajero along the rugged coastline of Mayo. A fortnight I had lived in Ireland. Banished for my own safety; a key witness in court against something dark, dangerous. Displaced from my family for doing what was right, exiled into the night. The previous eve I lost myself in similar lanes, crying.

“You two sure look like a cute couple,” she said, her voice full of self-pity.

Why won’t she listen?

“Busted,” you laughed; big joke.

“It’s not like that, we’re not back together,” I said, not after what you put me through last time.

“Do you need any help?” I asked.

“What the hell do I need help for? Everyone thinks the cripple needs help. Damnit, no I don’t need help,” he said.

“I’m sorry, I just thought…”

“That’s your problem. Think too much. What do you know about being crippled?”

“I have schizophrenia,” I said.

“Well, congratulations. We’re both cripples,” he said. He broke a smile and we laughed.

“You don’t feel bad for me anymore do you?”

He saw a woman with an oversized hat and coat moving toward him through the snow. She looked up at him with snowflakes on her face and gave him a large smile.

“Let it snow, let it snow,” She said in a singsong voice while walking past him. He stared at her in complete surprise.

He caught a nearby shopper.

“Excuse me, what are these,” he pointed to the list.

“Try the seafood counter,” was the reply.

Once there, John asked, “Do you have scal…?”

“Scallops?” the server interjected. “Half a pound? They’re pricey.”

John placed the package into his basket. “Where do I find this,” he showed the same man.

“Rubber scrapers in kitchen gadgets.”

“Thank you.”

When John arrived home, his wife unpacked the bags.

Under the Christmas tree sat a tiny box from Steve, neatly wrapped in gold paper and a red bow.

A year had passed since Steve’s death and Rosa wouldn’t open the box without him.

Deep inside she knew what would be in the box, but truly knowing would break her heart.

“Nothing to worry about, Jim. Only a dead mouse.”

“I thought there was a pong.”

“Found him in the airing cupboard. Toasting himself, the fecker.”

“Ollie, why are you carrying him around?”

“I’m going to give him a decent burial.”

“You know what I’d have done?”

“What?”

“I’d have served him to Sourpuss. As a delicacy.”

“Isn’t Sourpuss rotund enough?”

“Are you going to part with that mouse, or aren’t you?”

“It’ll cost you, Jim.”

“Pint?”

“G’wan. Done. Here, take him.”

“Barman, two Guinness.”

Plop.

“What the-? My pint!”

Shoppers passed by clutching rolls of it.

“Fancy spending Christmas Eve wrapping presents!” Ian thought, reflecting on how he’d finished his yesterday.

“My God, they’re fighting over chocolates,” he sneered, observing a couple of housewives tugging the ends of a Milk Tray box in Howell’s Department Store.

He resolved to have a latte in Starbucks to fully savour the spectacle before the shops finally closed.

“Chocolates?!…Christ, I forgot the wife’s chocolates!”

Ian rushed out of the café.

“Please don’t take my parents away! Please bring them back!”