It’s Become a Bit of a Habit

You line the coins up in your palm and, when you think no one is looking, slip one between your lips. It rests on your tongue and your bones soften—the tension melts from your shoulders and you tip your head back, close your eyes. Copper is calming.

It’s become a bit of a habit, this mantra of yours. You pretend the one and two pence pieces you have stashed away—in the empty two litre cider bottle he left behind, forgotten behind the sofa—are for the arcade penny pushers the next time you venture to the seaside. But you haven’t seen the sea in years. You don’t do it often, suck on pennies. No, not often at all. Besides, it’s not sanitary—who knows who’s touched them?

But what if you do? What if you do it every day? You could, if you wanted. Who would it hurt if you did? There’s no one to stop you now he’s gone—that husband of yours. Packed his bags, a duffel and a suitcase, without so much as a reason or goodbye just before your fourteenth anniversary.

You flip the coin on your tongue and it clacks against your teeth. The boy to your left, who was moments before shoving chocolate bars into his inside pocket, frowns up at you. He glances up and down and his frown deepens. You pull your raincoat closer—copper is calming. The boy purses his lips and pulls the stolen confectionery from his coat and flings it back on the shelves. Part of you wants to take them up, to slip them in your pocket and stride out the door; your fingers flex at the thought.

“What you looking at?” he says and you gasp. You hadn’t meant to stare at him, didn’t realise—

The coin is no longer on your tongue.

Your eyes bloom like morning daisies, their white petals spreading wide. Copper is calming—but not when it is lodged in your throat.

The boy steps backwards. “What’s wrong with you?”

He looks at you as if you’re an animal gone rabid, as if you’re dangerous, feral—as if you might bite at any moment. You reach for him and your mouth is open but only a rasp comes out. Copper is calming.

You ball your hand into a fist and thump at your chest—one, two, three.

“Oi,” he shouts over his shoulder. “Oi. I think she’s choking or something.”

There is a clattering from the front of the shop, a small display is upended and, after a pause, thick arms covered in wiry black hair rope around you.

“It’s alright. You’re going to be alright.” At the last word the shopkeeper thrusts you up by the diaphragm, and again. It hurts. His arms are too short to do it properly and for a moment you think you might die. It is the first time anyone has touched you in months—not the worst way to go.

The shopkeeper tries again and the coin careens from your throat and lands between two packets of off-brand biscuits. When he lets you go, you try to grab at his arm to stop him from seeing it.

But even still, your hand travels to your pocket. Your fingers find a coin and you want to eat it up. You take it in your palm and hold it there until it warms.

The shopkeeper and the boy exchange a glance. The two pence on the shelf shines with your spit.

“It’s become a bit of a habit,” you say as if it explains it—as if it’s enough.

* * *

Ⓒ Elou Carroll