Meg:

It’s the 18th of July today. The 18th of July.

We – Michael and I – have separate bedrooms now because I wake up at 3 am most mornings and I
am not a quiet sort of a person.
We also have separate bedrooms because Michael snores.
And sweats.
I suppose we lack that intimacy we had when we were.
No.
That he and his secretaries had when they were.
No. That he imagines he has with this Woman he sees in Islington on a Saturday.
(Whispers.) Who he pays.
To see. On a Saturday
But it is nice, it is much nicer to say that we have separate rooms because I am an early riser and up
with the cuckoos and the dew and the dawn.
And today is the 18th of July.
I cross off the 17th July. Just like I cross off each day in the black fine-liners that we keep in the
ceramic pot from his mother’s trip to Skiathos. It fits just behind one of the Le Creuset dish I have
never used by the Aga. So no one has to see it.
It has cats on.
And I am Very allergic
to Michael’s mother.

On the radio they’re talking about another Missing Girl. She’s young. It’s about sex probably. Which
has always made more sense to me than it should – missing girls are always young, only a
psychopath would want to fuck a granny.
I can say that because I have a little girl and I am a mother.
It’s already light, so I put Michael’s loafers on that are by the back doormat, next to my shoes and
Flora’s little red wellies, and go out into the garden which is positively jungle-like at the moment.
The wildflowers are in bloom and I like to let the daises and the grass grow tall. Which is when I
notice the Hay moon has made everything appear half there. Which is when I notice the man.
The boy? The man (?)
By the fence.
By the fence at the back of my garden.
By the fence at the back of my garden. Looking up.

Many Moons by Alice Birch.