07 - An Emerson VHS Player

I can pretend for hours that Kate is still alive.

Apparently, denial is the first stage of grief.

The body's natural defence system to stop the pain ripping you apart from the inside out.

It's only when I go about the day pretending she is still here that I can function.

Denial keeps the fear from engulfing me.

Jo is not in denial.

Jo is flipping angry, flipping brimming over with the stuff.

And I know she's marking her skin again.

I saw the red, raw wound weeping from beneath her sleeve of her cardi when she reached over the table to grab some ketchup.

and I know she saw me see it by the way she whipped her arm back quick smart.

She pulled the cuff over her entire hand then sat on it as if that would undo the seeing.

It was Jo who'd arranged the emergency meeting at the piling greasy spoon after she texted me about the others.

We huddled over the plastic red and white tablecloth attempting to eat our bacon sandwiches.

The bleached white bread got stuck in my throat just like my confession.

I couldn't bring myself to tell her about the note I wrote, found in Kate's dead hand.

And I couldn't help wondering what Jo might be concealing from me, too.

Her version of the truth, too bitter, too jagged to swallow.

We both have our secrets.

I can feel it between our words, the pause between breath.

The silent chewing of food our tongues can't taste as we avoid each other's eyes and thoughts.

This game we are playing with each other, confiding and hiding all at the same time.

It was then, in an uncomfortable silence, that Jo pulled her phone from her pocket.

She scrolled before sliding the phone across the table towards me, glancing up and around herself as she did.

Nor that she needed to worry about anyone watching us.

Nobody gives a shit about anyone in this town.