Free The Fly Guy by Colum Sanson-Regan

clothes out and checks them, looking closely at the fabric before shaking his head and taking them out to the garden. He takes the grill off a barbecue bowl and puts the trousers and shirt in and splashes them with lighter fluid. He throws in a match, and as the flames catch, strolls back through the glass double doors, into the kitchen and stirs the pot.
    “I need more clothes,” she says.
    “In the morning Franz will be back with a selection of clothes for you. This is smelling really good, I hope you’re hungry.”
    “You don’t have any music in this house.”
    “There’s the TV.”
    “That’s not the same.”
    “What do you mean? There’s music channels on the TV.”
    “You don’t own any music.”
    “No. I don’t own any music. There’s music on the TV if I want it.”
    “If you hear something you like don’t you want to own it, to hear it again?”
    “No.”
    “When you do watch TV, you only watch crappy reality shows.”
    “True. Not all crappy. Some are really good.”
    “How about good movies? Or horrors, or comedies?”
    “Well you get all that in real life. Why bother looking at or reading something someone’s made up when you can see something that really happened? Isn’t that more interesting?”
    “There’s something wrong with you. Something missing.”
    Gregor laughs and stirs the pot some more, leaning his head over the steam to smell the aromas. He puts in a handful more of herbs. Through the glass double doors she can see the flames leaping up from the barbecue bowl.
    “What kind of music do you like?” Gregor asks.
    “Old stuff, swing.”
    “Old stuff? Like what?”
    “Swing.”
    “I don’t know what that is.”
    “You don’t know swing? Like Frank Sinatra? They don’t play it much on the radio.”
    “Wasn’t he an actor? Black and white? I didn’t know he did music. How did you get to hear it? Aren’t you way too young to be into that stuff?”
    “My daddy used to play. What age do you think I am?”
    “I think you are nineteen or twenty. What age do you think I am?”
    “I don’t know. Too old for me.”
    Gregor laughs again, still stirring the pot.
    Now she changes the tone of her voice, the words get longer, more needy. Her accent becomes more pronounced as she says,
    “Gregor, I don’t feel good. I need some medicine.”
    “That’s okay. It’s okay not to feel good for a while. Give yourself a few more days. As long as you eat well, really, that makes all the difference. Come on, we will eat at the big table.”
    Lucy watches as he lays out place mats and knives and forks and spoons on the thick wooden table, before going back and stirring the pot again. She’s finished her glass of wine. She pours some more.
    “My mother showed me how to make chicken casserole when I was a boy. Of course, back then she picked the herbs from the garden and the verges. She made special dumplings but I’ve never been able to get them right. I did try, but I’ve given up on them, but the casserole …”
    He lifts the stirring spoon to his lips and tastes.
    “Well, you’ll see, it’s really something, even without my mother’s herbs. It’s missing something, ha ha, like me, but it still tastes … mmm, it’s nearly ready.”
    “I’m not hungry. These lights are too much. I need something else, not food. Everything’s sharp. Every corner’s … cutting me. I need something. You know? Wine isn’t enough. Do you know? Have you ever felt like this?”
    Gregor dims the lights and takes her by the elbow, walking her across the room to the big wooden table.
    “Food. Really, the secret is in good food.”
    As she sits she sees that the flames outside are dying down and night is coming in.
    “Franz will have some great clothes for you, I can guarantee it. He knows what looks good. That’ll make you feel better, won’t it?”
    He pours the rich red wine into her half-empty glass, filling it back to the top.
    “I will be away tomorrow but I can come back