See You Tomorrow

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His eyes, they feel as if there’s sand in them.

As if there’s a fine layer of tiny grains on the membrane. It’s been like that for weeks now. Nothing helps: not eye drops, not eye ointment, it won’t go away. The grains scrape against the membrane. If it keeps up, the particles will perforate the cornea and one day he’ll wake up unable to see the world.

Maybe it’s just as well.

Getting so sick of this.

It’s never going to work out, is it?

Pål wipes the mixer with the cloth, then folds it and hangs it over the tap. He leans on the worktop and fills his lungs with air, as though that would help. He hears the gush of the cistern from the first floor and he exhales, glances at the dog. The border collie is lying on a blanket next to the fireplace.

‘Eh, Zitha? Just as well, eh?’

The sound of the cistern subsides and it’s peaceful in the house. As peaceful as outside, where not even the lightest leaves on the trees stir beneath the yellow glow of the street lights. Not even the string hanging from the spruce tree moves; the string the girls used to hang milk cartons from, that they had cut holes in and stuck twigs through, so that the great tits could sit there and eat.

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