The wonderful everyday

Words by Gus McHue

A feverish burning had long been kindling inside her. Her clenched knuckles, white-red with anguish, were held firmly to her jeans. Looking around, the faces of passersby seemed smug, almost insolent, as they mindlessly wandered. Could they not see her? Or were they so caught up in their social apathy that they simply did not care?

She watched as a young boy, attached to his carer by way of a lime green harness emerging from his backpack, passed her. Holding a large pinwheel lollipop in his left hand, he ran his, undoubtedly sticky, other one along the shelves, displacing and muddling the displays. His carer, a heavyset, short man with blue hair and a sweated-through Silverchair t-shirt stared at his phone and seemed oblivious to the child’s actions as he was pulled through the building.

“Fuck you”, she mouthed to the boy as their glances met.

She thought of the man’s hands, which were probably just as sticky as the boy’s.

For what must have been hours, must have been days, she had walked endlessly in circles, starved of bathroom facilities and access to water. She could feel it on an atomic level, bubbling deep under her skin, like an intense static in her feet and hands. She wanted to yell. She wanted to scream and shout and fall to the floor and cry. Would they care? Would anyone care? Would the boy break free from his leash and join her in tantrum. She took two deep breaths, steadied her feet and, unclenching her fists, took down a flatpack from the large shelves. The box was dust covered and stale. A label, blue and yellow, read:

SKRUVBY

Bookcase and shelving unit

60 x 140

The photo was not the one she had seen online.

Fuck it, she thought, this will do.