Free Dark Roots by Cate Kennedy

meeting down there at 7.00. I just got off work early and thought ... I’d come and pay you a visit.’
    â€˜That’s nice.’ There was a pause that couldn’t be called anything but awkward as we both listened to the kettle reach boiling point then turn itself off.
    â€˜That kettle going alright, is it?’ Chooka said suddenly, and I remembered he had given it to us as a wedding gift.
    â€˜Yes, yes, it’s great. Use it every day.’
    We sat on the couch. As I sipped my coffee a sweaty hand landed across my shoulders.
    â€˜So how you doing then?’ Chooka said, giving my shoulder an affectionate squeeze.
    â€˜Good ... thanks.’
    â€˜You must get a bit lonely here by yourself of a day, eh Monica?’ As he spoke, his hand moved down the space between my arm and my side, the fingers wriggling. A grope. Or, in Chooka’s books, single-step foreplay.
    â€˜Cut it out, Chooka.’
    â€˜Just bein’ friendly.’ He gave a ghastly grin, then put his cup on the table and grabbed my hand teasingly.
    â€˜Yeah, well ...’ I began, then my hand was deposited on his groin, and held there. I yelped, trying not to spill my scalding coffee in his crotch. Again, I was speechless. After all, first Macka and now Chooka — was it something I’d said? I pulled my hand free and very deliberately wiped it on my jeans.
    â€˜I think you should leave,’ I said.
    â€˜You won’t tell Barry about this, will ya?’ he said as he stood, at a loss. Rejection hadn’t occurred to him; the script was written and directed by testosterone.
    â€˜I might.’
    â€˜Well, I wouldn’t. Whatever’s gone on between you and me, Monica, that’s private, okay? Barry doesn’t need to know about this.’
    He stalked out before what romance novels call his visible male hardness could return to its normal dimensions. I sat there, winded. Now what? As I emptied the dishwasher and washed Chooka’s mug, I wondered how I was going to break this to Barry. Again, I had my chance. He came home with a box full of jars the cleaner at work had given him, ready for sterilising for home preserves. On the way he’d stopped off and bought a half-case of vinegar and kilos of mustard seeds, ready for the weekend markets. He’d even bought me a new book, The Home Preserver: Everything You Need To Know About Putting Food By. On the cover was a woman in a frilled apron, who had the simpering, scrubbed look of a fundamentalist sect member, gazing adoringly at a line of neatly labelled jars. Barry seemed filled with an almost evangelical fervour as he glanced through the pages.
    â€˜See, look at this, Monica. Snap and colour, that’s what the experts say. That’s what you should be striving for. So we need to get cucumbers no bigger than that, okay?’ He held up a thumb and forefinger. I looked and nodded. These would not be mere baby cucumbers, these were to be premature cucumbers, snatched from the vine before full term, plunged into the humidity crib of the sterilised jar. I nodded, while in my mind sang the sentence that had been hanging there immobile: Hey, guess what happened this afternoon, Barry? Your mate Chooka put the hard word on me. Macka tried the same thing last Saturday. That makes both of your mates, Barry. I stared dreamily at the gap he was emphasising, letting his words drift over me.
    â€˜Got it, Mon?’ he was saying.
    â€˜Sure,’ I said with a bright smile.
    The next day it was footy as usual — hot dogs and mustard, stubbies of beer and lots of shouting. Macka and Chooka didn’t meet my eye much. At half-time they made a pretence of watching the cheer squad march onto the ground and do high kicks in the drizzle. The three of them went out to the club that evening and I was idly watching an old video when Barry returned. I heard the front door slam and Barry thumped into the bathroom. He re-emerged five minutes