by Charlotte Evans
the washing up bowl filled up and placed on a paving slab in summer; tsunami waves slosh over the sides, havoc causing little hands concoct whirlpools at the centre. children love to play god, don’t they? every last dreg of squash in the house mixed into a cocktail, diluted with water, lemonade, milk. milk drunk. show me where it hurts, i will use a whole tube of toilet paper to bandage you back up. in the cockpit of our green plastic table, leant on its side, we hurtled past venus, towards hebe the goddess of youth and back again. you held my nose on the way through the ozone layer so my ears didn’t pop. only we know there are toads on the moon, and aliens dancing in high vis jackets to busted and mcfly. once, or maybe a hundred times, we turned nan’s living room into an antique shop. the china neck of a victorian ornament snapped right off in my hands. don’t worry, you told me, your tongue stuck out in concentration, i can superglue it back on. i still walk past windows with thick condensation stuck to glass and want to write our names with my fingertip. laura may, charlotte rose, get away from there please i’ve only just cleaned them, come and play nicely.