A. S. by Sophie Collins

And what was it Anna Sofia couldn’t say? That all had started with Arlo, when she had started up with Arlo, who had been nice enough, but whose presence had turned her into herself. And so first the faces, then mainly the eyes, but, in the end, all of it really.

And what was it she couldn’t say she was after? To smash to pieces the earthenware jug on the stove top? The sound of a veil tearing? Both were nice ideas, but she couldn’t stick with them. She walked around a bit and started to blurt things out. She told old men just how much they smelled, that their breath smelled and more, and this got her into some real trouble. A white old man, pale lizard face, small teeth, paper neck, hat the colour of yellow dog shit…

He came at her in an alleyway with the red tie just as bad, and, quick as she needed to be, A. S. had pulled out a razor knife – could have been Arlo’s, could have been anyone’s – and flicked it at his papery neck.

She would tell them she had been where she had always intended to be that day in September 2013: the Mushrooms and Health Summit, Washington, D. C. And if it didn’t get her off (it wouldn’t), it didn’t matter. Powerful, she can cook.