Monoceros. Suzette Mayr

      The phone in the kitchen rings.

      — Your girlfriend’s on the phone, says Grampa.

      Ginger holds the telephone receiver up to his frozen face and he says to Petra, — I feel like a jar of Cheez Whiz. Way past the due date. What does that mean, Petra? Exactly what it sounds like.

      No, he’s not falling out of love with her, of course he loves her, will always love her. He needs to get off the goddamn phone.

      Grampa boiling up a giant pot of goulash, Grampa stomping around the kitchen with his favourite T-shirt stretched over his potbelly, sweat stains blossoming, browning in his armpits. Ordering Ginger to sit.

      Ginger contemplates the steaming meat and gravy puddle on his plate. Pokes it with his fork, then sets the fork back down.

      Later, Ginger falls backwards onto his bed, each one of his eyelashes sticking up like spikes on a dog collar, he is freezing but sweating so hard he can feel his skin frying, sweat punching out every pore.

      He noses his fingers for just one ghost of Furey’s perfume.