He Does And He Doesn't

 What are you thinking? asks Angelina.

If life could be lived backwards, says Kierkegaard.

If? says Angelina. What then?

There would be more certainty, says Kierkegaard.

Silly, says Angelina. You'd know how things ended but not how they began.

That could be intuited, says Kierkegaard.

So can the future, says Angelina.

I don't think so, says Kierkegaard. We weren't going to Emu Bay. Now we are. 

With me, says Terence. You didn't know that either. Or my turnip pieces.

How are they doing? asks Angelina.

She looks into the tea bowl. The turnip pieces do not look back.

Their little turnip eyes are closed, or so wrinkled it makes little difference. Their turnip mouths are nothing but tiny holes from which no bubbles emerge.

Waley-waley, says Terence.

That's a sad song, says Angelina.

It's a parrot song, says Terence.

........

Gaius is cycling to the IGA where he has arranged to meet Louisa and Arthur.

As he cycles he thinks about recent kindnesses that have been shown him.

Lettuces, brought quickly.

Peppermint tea.

And now at Louisa's suggestion, a return to the Emu Bay shale.

There is a rock in the road. He avoids it.

The gods are smiling. 

If he believed in the gods, which he does and he doesn't.

.......

Louisa and Arthur wait outside the IGA, with their shopping. Oranges and chocolate, and bottled water.

We'll recycle our bottles, says Louisa.

We used to make packets out of recycled plastic, says Arthur. Plastic that washed in from the sea.

Packets for what? asks Louisa.

Sea salt, says Arthur. We had a small business.

Who's we? asks Louisa. Was it Unni?

No, says Arthur. It was Sweezus. How come you know about Unni?

Gaius told me, says Louisa. He said she went with you to Kas.

She did, says Arthur. She was with me when we found the Twitcher. 

In the Death Box, says Louisa. 

In the Death Box, says Arthur.

But not dead, says Louisa.

No, says Arthur. The last one alive. A survivor.

How romantic, says Louisa. 

A terrible scent, and dark swirling water; luminescent flashes subsiding; final drops fall to the sea;

just one flaccid cuttlefish remains in the stolen death box, says Arthur. 

Flaccid, says Louisa. I like that. Now tell me more about Unni.