“Oh yeah?” said Graham, half paying attention.

  “Yes. It seems Nathan has been telling the other children that God doesn’t exist and that grown-ups made him up because they’re scared of the dark.”

  Mary and Graham both sniggered.

  “Yeah, I wanted to talk about that. I was going through one of Nathan’s books the other day and something stuck out.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  She had her arms pinned back like a rooster, ready to fight to the death.

  “His book mentioned two points for the emergence of the universe. The first is fine – The Big Bang – though all signs point to the universe predating this event. That’s not the issue, though.”

  “Oh, you have an issue?”

  Again, her defences kicked in.

  “This second point,” he said, handing her the paper that he had ripped out of the book and kept folded in his back pocket this whole week. “This bit here,” he said.

  “Another theory is that God created the universe,” said Miss Stevens, reading it out loud. “Yes? And?”

  Her defences dropped again as if this couldn’t possibly be an issue.

  “That’s the issue,” said Graham. “This is a school, right?”

  “Well yes,” said Miss Stevens.

  “Good, well, God doesn’t belong in school.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Look, I’m not here to step on anyone’s toes. I’m a teacher too. It’s just… How do I explain this…Creationism is not a theory. Just because someone thought it and everyone is going along with it doesn’t make it a theory. Now, I’m not saying religion is bad.”

  “Well, what are you saying?”

  Her face was shaped like a crystal tear.

  “Well…”

  His pauses only made things worse.

  “A school is no place for it. Don’t get me wrong. People can believe whatever they want. But a school, and especially a science class, is a place for facts – things we can measure, test, and prove right or wrong. Concepts of gods or lotus flowers are for churches and sweaty rec centres.”

  “We’re not teaching the children religion; we are merely presenting a well-held belief that the universe was created by God.”

  “Well, you see, there. Even here you wrote God with a capitol ‘G’. As if you had one god specifically in mind. What about the other gods? What about all the other well-held beliefs of how the universe came into creation? Do you even know who Pangu is? Now if you had written, ‘a god’ it would be less specific, still not science, but at least generalising. But you wrote God with a capitol ‘G’ which means you’re talking about the Christian God; am I right?”

  “But that’s what that means.”

  “This is a school, not a church. If you can’t give me the math and physics, you shouldn’t be leading the conversation.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand you.”

  “Of course you don’t.”

  “You’re looking way too much into this. It’s just a line in a book. It’s doesn’t matter. You’re getting worked up over nothing.”

  “It matters because he’s my son.”

  “Fine then,” she said.

  Her offence was as obvious as his.

  “Thanks for taking the time to come in.”

  She said it with a cold shit-eating grin. Then she stormed off, mouthing something about helicopter parents. When she returned, though, with her class, one would have been hard put to find a spot of bother on her face. She kissed the kids on the tops of their heads and waved to all the parents as if nothing could get under her skin.

  “Mum, dad, yay!” shouted Nathan, grabbing them both by one leg each.

  On the drive home, both kids fought over each other to describe their days. Isabel went first, confessing about a boy she liked and then about how a spider had fallen from the roof onto her best friend's diary, and then about how loud everybody screamed. Nathan told the exact same story.

  “What’s religion, dad?” asked Isabel.

  Her face was shaped like a question mark.

  “I heard you talking to Miss Stevens.”

  “Remember that time we went to the cinema,” said Graham. “And that guy kept shouting out who did it all the way through the movie?”

  “Yeah, he was annoying. He ruined the whole movie. And in the end, he was wrong about everything.”

  “Yeah well, that's religion.”

  “Is that what you were talking to Miss Stevens about? About annoying people?”

  “Sort of. They were teaching things that kids don’t need to know about. And it has nothing to do with how the universe was made.”

  “The Big Bang made the universe,” said Isabel.

  “Well yes and no. For all, we know the universe may have existed before The Big Bang. “

  “So how was the universe created then?”

  “We don't know. We haven't discovered that yet. And that's ok. It's ok not to know what happened first the same way it's ok not to know what's gonna happen next. It takes a lot more courage to admit you don't know something than it does to pretend you do. Plus, finding out is the best part."

  “Dad?”

  “What’s up darlin’?”

  “If I die, does that mean my life has no meaning?”

  Graham stopped the car. He turned to his daughter. His heart swelled with pride. He’d never heard a nine-year-old ask such a question. It was as if he had caught his shadow acting like a different person.

  “No, darlin’,” he said. “The fact that you die gives your life meaning.”

  “Oh cool,” she said, sounding nine again.

  Then Nathan screamed.

  “I don’t wanna die!”

  His face was shaped like a red and green wire.

  “You’re not gonna die,” said Graham, consoling his son. “Never. You’re never gonna die. Your sister will – definitely.”

  The girl smiled.

  “But you; you’re gonna live forever!”

  “Ok,” said Nathan, and that was that.

  When they got home, all the kids wanted was cartoons and computer games, and all Mary wanted was to sit down in the shower and just soak for a few hours under hot water.

  “Can’t believe they’re teaching them religion,” said Graham while Mary hurriedly undressed.

  “And?”

  “What do you mean and? Isn’t that worrying enough?”

  Mary stared down at her blouse; one side stuck out more than the other.

  “I love than you get passionate about this sort of thing,” she said. “But does it really matter?”

  “It matters to me.”

  “But what about your son? Now her dad has gone and made a spectacle, how do you think she’s gonna feel at school? And her teacher? There’s still a whole semester to go. Imagine if some mother or father came storming into your office like that.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Of course. Because you’re bloody stubborn. You think you’re right about everything.”

  “But I am right.”

  “According to you. How do you know there isn’t a god? I mean, if every single generation of humans has thought it, don’t you think it could warrant some merit?”

  “So you’re saying God created the universe.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “Well, what are you saying?”

  “What I’m saying is….”

  Her right nipple was stinging, her head was pounding, and her legs felt like they were about to drop off at any second. Worse than that was the ache in her belly that wasn’t clear if it needed food or water.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I need a shower.”

  She took a deep breath and exhaled – that alone said more than words ever could - then she took off her blouse and threw it at his feet. Her face was shaped like a Rubik’s Cube. She still had a twirling octopus attached to her left nipple. The right was red and swollen as if it had suffered enough for them both. They both stared at the octopus as its little arms swished back and forth.

  “Don’t you fucking laugh,” said Mary.

  She herself sounded as if she were on the verge of either laughter or tears.

  “So what’s the deal? They couldn’t budge it?”

  “No, Graham, they couldn’t.”

  “But why? They got the other one-off.”

  “Because I told them to stop.”

  “But why?”

  “Because it hurt, Graham. It hurts tearing an octopus from your tits.”

  Graham fought back his laughter. He bit his cheeks and tried to be as serious as possible, thinking about the swishing octopus stuck on her nipple as a flesh wound or a benign tumour. The more he fought it, though, the worse of an actor he became.

  “This was supposed to be for you, you know,” said Mary, the little octopus arms swishing as she stormed angrily into the shower.

  “I know. I’m sorry. I’m an ass. It’s just….”

  “Just what?”

  The angrier she got, the more the octopus swished.

  “You have to admit it’s kind of funny.”

  ”Prick.”

  Graham sat down on the toilet and Mary on the floor of the shower. Sweat dripped off his brow while steaming hot water poured off hers. They both stared listlessly – she at a crack in the door and he at a stain on the tiles on the floor. They stayed that way for some time.

  Track 26 (Blue)

  Isaac stood on the verge of a house in the middle of suburbia. For a second, he forgot who he was and instead imagined who he’d rather be. He imagined that this was just the end of another day and that he was coming home to the house that he built with the woman that he loved. He imagined for a second that he knew all of his neighbours’ names and even nodded his head at the house across the street as if there was someone there to nod back. He admired the grass as if he himself had mown it and took a second to smell the roses as if it were the one thing he had never found the time to do.

  “Hi.”

  The woman at the door caught him off guard.

  “Isaac, right?”

  She was beautiful. That his first thought. It was the kind of beauty, though, that garnered a regard instead of a wanton stare. He almost tripped as he tried to right himself, so unprepared, was he. Hers was the kind of beauty that made a man clumsy and fall head over heels.

  “I..uh…”

  He wished he was funny. He wished he was cool.

  “Yeah,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Isaac.”

  Was he supposed to kiss her? Was he supposed to shake her hand?

  “I’m Beth.”

  They both stood there awkwardly staring at one another; neither one knowing what to say next. Not even a polar bear could break this ice.

  “I’m still not ready,” she said.

  You wouldn’t think it, though. You’d be hard-pressed to find a single fault.

  “Give me two minutes. You can come in if you like.”

  Then she turned and darted up the stairs leaving the front door wide open. Isaac crept in, like a cat, overcome by curious wonder and at the same time, skittish about what might jump out.

  “Wow,” he said, as he stepped into her living room.

  It was enormous, and the warmth that spilled from it was enough to put all his nerves at ease. From the pictures and niknaks on the mantle to the ferns in the corners and the artwork gingerly spread across the walls, there wasn’t a single thing that hadn’t been placed without a considerable amount of care and purpose.

  It looked like an actual home as opposed to where he lived which felt more like overnight accommodation. Nothing looked out of place. Not even her.

  “One second,” shouted Beth from somewhere up the stairs.

  Her profile said that she loved dogs and was captivated by smiles.

  He wondered if she was a painter herself if most of this work was her own. Wouldn’t that be lovely, the two of them spending their Sunday afternoons painting sunsets and snow-capped mountains? The thought alone made him giddy inside.

  And then his eyes fell on the handful of pictures that decorated the mantle.

  “Oh shit,” he said to himself. “She’s a mum.”

  She had a boy, maybe ten years old, and he was a spitting image of her. There wasn’t a single photo where the two of them weren’t smiling; both of them with adorable matching dimples.

  “I’m coming,” she said, her voice faint and triste.

  Her face, too, as she walked down the stairs said that she herself had not smiled in years. Her sadness wasn’t obvious, not at first anyway, but it wafted here or there, following her in the soft and quiet footsteps and from the tips of her fingers as she lightly brushed the banister. It lingered in the tips of her hair too; you could see it when she turned away from the light.

  “I know you probably had plans,” she said. “But would you mind if we just stayed in instead? We can watch a movie and get a pizza. I have some good wine if you like wine. I don’t really drink myself but it’s ok if you do.”

  She stood at the bottom of the stairs already dressed in a long knitted cardigan.

  “That’s ok,” said Graham. “Bars are too noisy anyway.”

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “Um, sure.”

  “It’s ok,” said Beth. “You can relax. You don’t need to impress anyone.”

  She had a way about her, as if nothing at all mattered, but not in a destructive way – she looked and sounded how Vicodin felt. Any nerves that Isaac had, quickly receded.

  “Your house is beautiful,” he said.

  He hoped she knew he was talking about her.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Because she did.

  Though her house was beautiful, her kitchen sink was a godawful mess. Cups and plates were stacked on all sorts of angles, wedged into place and stopped from sliding off onto the floor by enough silverware to serve a small banquet; all of them filthy. The dirt and grime stuck out like boils and cysts on dried bumpy skin.

  “There’ll be a glass here somewhere,” she said.

  She rummaged around for some minutes opening and closing the same cupboard doors dozens of times before finally shoving her hand into a small crevice in the sink. Even if there was a glass beneath all that mess, there was no way it was coming out.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. ”It’s not usually like this.”

  Her face was shaped like a faux pas.

  ”It’s fine,” said Isaac, trying his best to sound reassuring.

  He wanted to hug her right then and there. He wanted to hold her until whatever sadness was boarded up inside of her was forced to let go. He wanted to whisk her up in his arms and, like the hero in his favourite stories, tell her that it would all be ok.

  “We’ll order something,” she said, closing the fridge. “It’s easier.”

  The rest of the house was immaculate. It looked and smelt as if a handful of maids had spent just as many days preparing it just for today; whereas the kitchen – with its blocked drains, grease-stained walls, and odour of spoiled milk, spoke, if anything, of a person who had long since given up.

  “Sounds good,” said Isaac.

  He didn’t look at her bloated sink in disgust – well not entirely anyway. More so, he was amazed at how much cutlery she had amassed. Were they dining at his apartment, they would have just as much struggle to find a cup or a plate quite simply for lack thereof.

  “Do you smoke?” she asked.

  She was already rolling a joint as she sat down on the sofa, carefully licking the paper as she curled her legs under her body and leaned over the armrest in a way that felt as if they’d known each other for years. It didn’t feel like a date at all.

  “So what’s your story?” she asked.

  Her eyes changed for a second as if she were breathing, like a diver trapped in a cave, from a pocket of air that belonged to a universe that she could not easily return to. She stayed there for a second in what looked like sheer bliss before opening her eyes and returning to his world.

  “I dunno,” he said.

  “So who are you?” she said.

  She studied him as if he was a work of art, blowing thick plumes of smoke into the air as he squirmed in his seat, feigning casual and cool.

  “I’m just a guy,” said Isaac, unsure how to answer the question. “I do research, I teach a bit. That’s kind of it. Oh yeah, that and I just started learning how to paint.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “The painting? I’m terrible. A baby could do better.”

  “I didn’t ask if you were good at it. I asked if you liked it. Well? Do you?”

  “I don’t know to tell you the truth.”

  “You don’t know if you like it?”

  “It stops me from thinking about things.”

  “So it’s peaceful?”

  “Hell no. It drives me crazy. I freak out about every little detail I get wrong. It looks so bloody simple when someone else is doing it then you try it yourself and Jesus…. Suppose it’d better to be all worked up over some silly painting than work or the future or….”

  “Things that are out of your hands – out of your control.”

  “You get that too?”

  “Everybody’s a little fucked up,” she said, through a blanket of white smoke.

  She passed the joint to Isaac who studied it as if it were some alien codec.

  “Nobody ever died smoking weed,” she said. “Trust me. It’s ok.”

  She was so comfortable, curled up as she was, on her comer of the sofa, slowly lighting her cigarette. Isaac didn’t smoke. He found the smell nauseating and the act absurd. Yet in her company, he felt almost compelled to light one up himself.

  “Are you married?” she asked.

  Even her questions were absurd.

  “What? No. Why?”

  “Just a question,” she said. “It’s just some people are. So what do you do then?”

  Isaac was still tethered to the first question.

  “For a living,” she reiterated. “You know? A job?”

  “Yeah, sorry,” said Isaac.

  He’d never smoked weed before. He wondered, obsessively, if he should tell her or if this was something that he should best keep to himself. He also wondered if she could tell. He wondered then if he looked and sounded silly, and then he wondered if he should sit upright or whether it would be better if he slouched. He wondered too if she loved LOVE as much as he did.