Black outside, it gets dark at four as we head deeper into winter. I peer through the window, looking for her, but it's only my reflection that I see, illuminated, a ghost. I am pale, my colour bleached by the fluorescent kitchen light. I am enchanted by this blemish free version of me.
At school, Lynn Hanker says that if you mouth the word "colorful" at someone it looks like you are saying "I love you." I try it, she's right.
Mum's been out there for a while now, and dad's due home soon. I can't decide if I should go outside or stay in and clear up. What's best? Pretty me doesn't answer, so I run hot water into the sink, squeeze bubbles in, scrape the dishes. Cereal is cemented to the sides of bowls; I put them in to soak.
There's a vicious chill in the garden, but mum seems oblivious.
"All right my lovely?" she says.
"Mum? Will you come inside?"
"Not right now my sweet, I'm just fine here, thanks awfully though."
Here is on the ground, scrunched up in front of the shed. She's wearing only a thin blue blouse and jeans. A whisky bottle is in one hand, a cigarette that she sucks hard on, in the other.
"Dad'll be home soon," I say.
"Whoop de doo," she replies.
"You'd best come in, please?"
"I'd rather not, thank you."
"It's freezing out here," I can hear the whine creep into my voice, she won't like that.
"I am not cold at all," she responds, chillily, "and anyway, if I do get cold I shall sit in a flowerpot, the spiders won't notice."
The front door squeaks and slams. He's home.
Sara Crowley was short-listed for the Book Tokens/Faber 'Not Yet Published Award' in 2007. She has had stories and reviews published by Pulp Net and various other sites. She blogs at http://asalted.blogspot.com/ and appreciates you taking the time to read this.