PICK PICK PICK
by Ross Wilson

Laura watched him scrape the remains of the meal she’d prepared across his plate. She closed her eyes when he put it into his mouth, for as soon as it was in, and as she’d anticipated, Davey’s lips began to move. Suddenly, after ten minutes silence, and with his mouth full, Davey had something to say:

- That wis beautiful hen.

Laura’s eyes snapped open. - What? She demanded. And though she knew fine well what he’d said she could be forgiven for missing it. People tended to miss parts of Davey’s conversation when they were out. It had something to do with the way he thought of something to say while simultaneously spooning a mouthful of food. In busy restaurants Laura had to translate Davey’s muffled mouthings to the uninitiated. She had it down to a fine art. She’d had seventeen years practice.

- Ah wis jist sayin, Davey said, gravy dribbling from his lips, - the tea: beautiful. He smiled at her, his thumb up, a strand of stew hiding in the dimple in his chin.

Laura stared at him.

And Davey got up and took their dirty plates and cutlery to the washer. She heard him open it and slot them in. She heard a fork fall and clang and bounce along the floor. She heard Davey curse, fill the washer, and turn it on. She heard a cupboard door open and slam, and the creak of the fridge door. A second later she watched him walk through and by her, a toothpick in his teeth and a beer in his hand, his eyes on the big chair, and then his arse as he sat down and kicked back, remote zapping the telly through the space between his slippers thrust upwards on the foot-rest.

- Ye gaun ih sit there aw night? He asked her, eyes not leaving the telly, fingers ripping back the tab on his tin.

Only then did he commence to pick . . . .

That morning something strange had happened at work. The Man turned everything around. Usually it was just the girls heads in the office he turned, including her own, but that morning he’d twisted more than her eyes to his body; he’d almost twisted her arm.

- There’s the Man! Katrina gasped.

- Where! Claire shouted, almost wetting her pants, running at the window, tripping over a cable, and flattening her nose against the pane.

Katrina howled with tear streaking laughter as Claire picked herself up, holding her nose, hiding behind her hands.

- Did ih see? She moaned, mortified.

- Ih’ll no see you when ah’m here tae distract uh’m, Katrina teased, easing the material of her skirt down over her long legs.

Laura looked at them, telling herself to remain calm, to retain some dignity, as she walked towards the window: you’re old enough to be their mother, and his, she reminded herself, flinching uncomfortably at the thought.

When he came in it was Katrina, the receptionist, who always got to talk to him, though Claire was never far away with a smile.

That morning though he’d asked to see Laura and when she came out of her office he just came out with it.

- When do you finish? He asked her.

Katrina and Claire looked at her.

- Five, she said, - Why?

- I was wondering if you’d like to go for a drink.

Katrina and Claire looked from her to him and back again, eyes and lips wide.

- Oh, Ah’m married, she told him, the faint trace of a smile creasing an otherwise straight face.

- Oh, he said, - right. Okay then! He smiled and tapped the consol. And then he was gone.

Laura walked into her office and sat down behind her desk in front of her monitor. Katrina and Claire stood before her, their mouths and eyes wide as they’d been when he’d asked her out. She looked at them and frowned.

- What?

- Ih jist asked ye oot! Katrina howled.

- That’s too much, Claire said, shaking her head, struggling to contain her jealousy.

Laura looked at them. It hadn’t quite sunk in. It was almost as if he’d asked her a business question, something formal, nothing to get excited about.

- Wiy did ye no go oot wi uh’m? Katrina demanded.

- Ah’m married, she said.

And Claire snorted, - tae Davey Toothpick!

Katrina laughed.

And Laura told them, - look, Davey is ma husband, okay? She stood up to say it, and leaned her fists on her desk, meeting their eyes with her own.

- Ah ken, Katrina began, still smiling, - but . . .

Claire looked down.

- Jist go back tae yir work, Laura told them, and they walked out. She sat back down and glanced out the window. The Man was almost at his car, zapping the locks with his key remote. She looked at his broad shoulders and tight buttocks . . . there was a picture of Davey on her desk. In it he wore a cowboy hat, his eyes slits impersonating Clint Eastwood, his toothpick in his gritted teeth, and the sunlight a spotlight on the paunch his poncho failed to conceal . . .

That afternoon she was in a cubicle when she overheard Claire and Katrina talking by the mirror.

- Wiy dae the call uh’m Davey Toothpick?

- Ih hus a fetish fir toothpicks.

- Ih?

- Naw, ih jist likes toothpicks, ih.

- Oh.

- Naebdy really calls uh’m that though, it wis jist Laura wan day. She wis fed up wi uh’m. Ah mean, who widnae be, ih? Did Ah tell ye the story aboot thum oan hoaliday last year?

- Nut.

- Aw, this is hilarious, wait tae ye hear this! Thi’d booked this caravan in the highlands somewhere, right? N thir niece or somedy turned up tae spend a few nights there wi ir boyfriend n . . .

Laura closed her eyes. - God, she murmured.

She shouldn’t have said anything to Katrina, it had just slipped out, she was so pissed off at the time, and it was funny, until she’d said it, until Katrina had laughed. Then it wasn’t so funny.

Their niece, Sharon, and her boyfriend, had been passing through and stopped by to see them. They ended up staying a couple of nights. Davey and Laura let them have the caravan to themselves one night while they went to a show, but Davey didn’t feel well and they’d went back early. There was no sign of Sharon or her boyfriend so they assumed they’d went out. Laura and Davey went to bed. They were reading their books when it started. Laura looked at Davey. Davey looked at his book. - What’s that? She said.

- What’s what?

- That? Listen.

- Ah cannae hear oanyhing, Davey told her, his eyes not leaving his book. Laura looked at his bare belly bulging over the duvet and turned her ear to the wall.

aw aw aw

ugh ugh ugh

aw aw aw

ugh ugh ugh

Laura turned to Davey. Davey turned the toothpick in his teeth, skilfully rotating the thin round spike and spearing a meaty chunk to examine with his eyes.

- Ye dinnae hear that?

- What?

aw aw aw

ugh ugh ugh

aw aw aw

ugh ugh ugh

- Ye must hear it!

- Ma ears ir blocked.

- Listen.

aw aw aw

ugh ugh ugh

aw aw aw

ugh ugh ugh

- It must be Sharon n Michael, she said.

- Ih? Ah thought they went oot?

Laura stared at him. - The must uh’v come back obviously. Either that or somedies broke intae the caravan fir a . . .

- Ih? Davey frowned and fingered his ear.

- Look! The wa’s vibratin.

Davey looked at the wall.

aw aw aw awww Michael!

Davey spat his toothpick out laughing. - Dirty wee bastards! He said.

Laura smiled and turned towards him. - Does it turn ye oan Davey?

Davey slotted his toothpick between his lips and lifted his book. - Behave yir sel Laura, we’re no nineteen.

- That’s too much! Claire shrieked.

- Wait tae ye here this yin! Ye heard ih Vlad the Impaler?

- Nut.

- Apparently ih wis the real Dracula or somethin bit ih impaled ihs victims oan spikes, ih, instead ih bitin thir necks. Oanywi! Toothpick Davey wis watchin a programme aboot uh’m wan night when Laura came in fae ir work, n guess what?

- What?

- Ih impaled the sausages she made uh’m oan ihs toothpicks!

- That is weird or sad or somethin.

- N guess what Laura says?

- What.

- “A toothpicks aw you kin impale oanyhing wi.” Git it!

Claire roared.

Laura hadn’t said that. She’d said it to Katrina the next day, but not to Davey, she’d never say anything like that to Davey. She hadn’t even thought of it until the next day, and even then probably because she knew Katrina’s sense of humour and the way she’d respond to something like that. Different people brought out different things in her. Davey used to bring out things she didn’t know she had. Davey used to do a lot of things.

They were in the car park after work when Katrina brought up The Man again. Laura was watching Claire trot across the car park to her boyfriend’s car. Her boyfriend looked about ten; he had a skinhead and acne. Claire kissed him and climbed in. The Man had come back, Katrina was telling her, when Laura had disappeared that afternoon . . . - where did ye go by the way?

She’d went to see Davey, to surprise him.

- Hiya hen what brings you doon here? He’d said and smiled the way he smiled, gave her a big kiss and cuddle, oblivious to the taunts of his work mates. They had their lunch together and he’d spoke to her. There was no telly at work, no books.

- Oanywi, Katrina said, - The Man came back, Ih’ll no take no fir an answer bae the looks ih it! Wanted tae ken hoo auld ye wir. Guess what ih thought?

Laura looked across the car park as a car spun into it carelessly, skidding.

- There’s Tony! Katrina said, jumping up and down, waving.

Laura frowned at her as she puffed on a fag.

- Anywi! Katrina said, - ih thought ye wir only twenty nine!

- What?

- The Man, ih thought ye wir only twenty nine! Me n Claire wir pissin ir sell!

Laura managed a smile.

- Yir only is young is ye feel though, ih? Katrina told her, - n it’s you ih picked! Laura watched her walk to her boyfriend’s car. Laura could not see him because the windows were tinted. Or tainted, Laura thought, watching Katrina open the passenger door. Another wheel spin and they were off, leaving tire marks in the car park half covering the faded marks of the car that picked Katrina up last week.

Laura walked to her own car, sitting by itself, at the far end of the car park. It was getting dark, and cold. When she got in she checked the mobile she’d forgotten that morning and left on the seat. There was a text message from Davey. Details of the meal he was preparing with a love heart for a full stop.

Davey walked out of the toilet as Laura walked in. Her eyes closed before she could close the door. It was a pity she couldn’t close her nostrils as easily.

- Awww Davey! She moaned, pinching her nostrils with her fingertips. She opened the bathroom window, wafting the air with her free hand.

- Ah cannae help it, Davey said from their bedroom.

- It’s the beer! She shouted back, spraying deodorant at the toilet. - God, she grumbled, realising it hadn’t flushed properly. She closed her eyes and flushed hard, but it came back, sinking under then slinking back to the surface. Peekabo!

Laura turned to the sink and looked at herself in the mirror. Twenty nine! He couldn’t have been serious. But why would he say it if he wasn’t? Men will say anything to get what they want but they have to want it in the first place. Even if it was a white lie, his attraction to her had to be sincere. Even if he didn’t think she was as young as he said he thought she was, he still wanted her. He still found her attractive.

- Enemy ih the States oan Friday night!

Laura closed her eyes.

- Ah says . . .

- Ah hear ye Davey!

- Tam says it’s a guid film.

- Tam likes films where things blow up.

- Ih? Ah cannae hear ye?

- It disnae maytir.

- It disnae maytir hen, wait till ye come ben. Ma ears ir blocked again.

- So’s the toilet.

Laura looked at the ear drops on the sink and the brown stained cotton buds and wool.

- Fir Christ sake Davey, she muttered, wincing as she picked them up and dropped them into the toilet.

Davey’s Y-fronts lay half in/half out the laundry bin, in the position they’d landed when he’d thrown them over his shoulder, as he was in the habit of doing ever since their honeymoon when they’d bathed together. “Watch this!” he’d said, whipping them off, and launching them over his head, spot on target.

- Yir aims no what it used tae be son, she mumbled to herself as she stuffed them into the bin. She brushed her teeth and examined herself in the mirror, smiling at her face, and turning to study her profile, curving her hand down along her belly.

She walked through in just her bra and knickers. She couldn’t see Davey’s face for the book in front of it; an Andy McNab paperback with a young rugged-yet-smooth looking commando in combat gear swinging from a rope, armed with a huge machine gun. Davey’s bare belly bulged over the duvet, hairy and heaving with breathing. A toothpick jutted from his profile, twirling in his teeth. His eyes didn’t leave his book, even after she’d lay there a few minutes watching him.

- Guid book? She asked eventually.

- Ugh, he grunted, toothpick trembling between his lips.

Laura sighed and rolled over onto her back reaching for the paperback on her side of the bed. They read in silence for twenty minutes. Then Davey farted. Laura looked over her book to their reflections in the mirrored wardrobe at the foot of their bed. She was sitting up, the book on her lap, her breasts bunched up tight but comfortable in her bra. Davey was as flat on his back as he could possibly be while reading at the same time. The reflection of his belly looked like the head of a bald man. His feet stuck out from the duvet. Laura could see the white flaking skin in the mirror and the ragged jagged toe nails in front of her.

- Wi’ll need tae dae somethin aboot that moose, Davey said, not looking from his book. “That moose” had been loose in their bedroom for years.

- Ye need tae cut yir tae nails.

- Ugh.

- Thir disgustin, she sneered, lifting her book again. Seconds later she dropped it and turned to look at him. Davey didn’t look away from his book, his fingers skilfully adjusting the toothpick in his teeth, sometimes fiddling playfully, other times getting straight down to business, skewering elusive threads of food, wrenching others from between his teeth with scant regard for the safety of his gums. Laura could hear him, her ear having attuned over the years, adjusting to the faint pin-drop sound of Davey’s toothpick in action as he scraped and picked away contentedly, frowning into the glamorous lives his book revealed to him: pick pluck poke pick . . . pick . . . pick . . .

Laura gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut. She threw her book to the floor and turned over onto her side, slamming her body down hard into the mattress. Then Davey started to choke, then cough, then choke again. He got up out of bed coughing and chocking and holding his throat, and fell to his knees, spluttering, his eyes shut with the pain, tears streaming down his cheeks as if extinguishing the redness licking up his throat and exploding wires into his forehead.

- Davey!

Laura was on her knees, on the edge of the bed, holding her head in her hands, screaming at him . . .

Then Davey stood up and sighed with relief, tears running down his cheeks, chest heaving for breath, a soggy snapped toothpick between his fingers.

- Ye nearly lost mae there hen, he gasped, sliding back into bed.

Laura hit him around the head with a pillow.

- Ya big lump!

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