Free Four New Words for Love by Michael Cannon

it but she can’t.’ We pause at the bus stop. She stays silent. At this rate the bus might come before she picks up the hint. ‘I’m
gambling on the fact that you work shifts.’ Still no recognition. ‘For God’s sake, Ruth, I’m suggesting that you and Lolly might try sharing. Lolly plus no one equals
eviction in three months. Lolly plus you together all day equals one of you being dead by the end of the week, and my money would be on Lolly surviving. Lolly and you keeping separate hours, and
agreeing whose turn it is to do the dishes and buy toilet paper, just might work.’
    ‘I don’t know...’
    ‘It would be a trial period. You might not like it. She might not agree.’
    ‘I don’t know...’
    The bus rounds the corner catching the low autumn sun in a string of flashing panes. I can feel Millie about to wake. This is it, I thought, a casual mid-morning exchange at a suburban bus stop,
this is one of the pivotal moments in Ruth’s life, and if it isn’t settled by the time the bus arrives then the moment will have gone and she’ll go back and fossilise.
    ‘What else is there for you? That?’ I point to the terrace. ‘You’ll die in instalments.’ It’s brutal. The bus is imminent.
    ‘Yes,’ she breathes, and then covers her mouth as if catching herself speaking treason.
    ‘She might say no,’ I caution, picking up Millie and collapsing the pram in one motion.
     
    * * *
    ‘No!’ It’s a bark that comes back before I’m finished the sentence.
    ‘You can’t do this on your own.’
    ‘You did.’
    ‘I had help from the Social, and a lot of nicked stuff, and you.’
    ‘I’ll get help from the Social.’
    ‘You need a kid, or one on the way, to qualify for the kind of help I got. You’re not their priority. I’ll help as much as I can, but I can’t spend the time on you that
you did on me. I’ve got Millie. Look, I’m trying to put this as nicely as possible, but you’re not a whole person.’
    ‘Pardon me all over the place. What the fuck are you talking about?’
    ‘What I mean is that you’re not a whole person
yet
. You’re the fun side magnified, and you can only be that way because other people do for you the things you
don’t want to do for yourself, things everyone eventually does for themselves. You think you’re independent, but you’re not. You eat at your parents. You eat here. You’ve
never cooked anything in your life except pot noodles, and you don’t know what anything costs. I’m not saying you’re not generous – you’re
too
generous.
You’re generous the way only a person who doesn’t look after themselves can afford to be. When you think I’m short of stuff you go out and buy things, and it’s a load of
tat. Three dozen Jaffa Cakes isn’t a balanced diet.’
    I can see tears well. They’re only partly genuine. She wants me to join in. This is all too close to home for comfort. I resist for her sake. I produce a pad and a pen and force her to sit
and make up a list of her potential expenses. She always slumps at the prospect of writing, and her bottom lip shunts out like a cash register. It’s the same pose as the nine-year-old
I’d to pass the arithmetic answers to. Watching her write is torture. I could
inscribe
faster. She finishes, slams the pen down and leans forward, head on crossed forearms resting on
the table. She can dance, drink and fornicate till the cleaning staff arrive, but any kind of mental exercise exhausts her. I slide the paper out from under her.
    ‘What kind of employment do you imagine you’ll have to get to fund this?’
    ‘Dunno. Vet? I like animals?’
    ‘You have to go to university to be a vet. And you have to pass exams to go to university. And you have to write fluently to pass exams.’
    ‘Well, something else then.’ To be fair to her she’s not work shy.
    ‘I’d say that’s advisable. Lower your horizons a bit. And this list,’ holding it up, ‘leaves a few things out.’
    ‘Such