The Dead Man’s heart raced and he worried he would cry. That the crying was just going to happen, tears rolling down his cheeks despite the situation—or maybe because of it. You know how it is. Heart thumping, limbs stiff, thoughts muddled. Perhaps I should apologise first. No, so, firstly, I’m sorry if this comes across as insensitive, but—no. Let’s take it back to earlier in the day. The Dead Man was at his friend’s house in a sleepy corner of town. His friend’s mother was cooking a lunch of eel and boiled rice in the kitchen while they sat at the table in the next room. Spice carried through to them, catching in their throats. Laughing and coughing, tears welling. Spiced eel fried—she cooked and they choked. When his friend’s mother served the meal, she leaned in close to the Dead Man and he caught the smell of alcohol on her breath. She sat and smiled at them, then hopped up again and asked if they wanted half a nip of whiskey each. How old was he then, 16? 17? After lunch, they went to the party and, really, Dead Man, really, you should have known. What, did you just swan in? Who even invited you? So, firstly, nobody was especially happy to see you there, not without warning, not arriving empty-handed and helping yourself at the drinks table. Secondly, for a pool party, the pool itself was very dirty and only half full, filled to waist-high. Someone, at some point, mentioned something about a crack and the water leaking out if it was filled any higher, but still. And then, not long after arriving, it must have been only twenty or thirty minutes, there was a fistfight. It started with an arm wrestle. At one end of the table, a couple were kissing, and at the other end, there was an arm wrestle which somehow developed into a fight. As easily as that. Kiss, wrestle, fight. But, come on, Dead Man. You knew it was trouble.

*

There is a wooden bench in the Dead Man’s bedroom, still. It’s been there since before he was born. Moved there at some point and forgotten, maybe. As a baby, his mother would nurse him while sitting there, and as he got older, it became an object of play, then a place to lie down on and listen to his father, on the phone in the other room, speaking in his language to a relative or old friend, shouting and laughing late into the night, long after the rest of the apartment block had gone to sleep, yelling and laughing like he didn’t have a care in the world.

…

Tristan Foster is a writer from Sydney, Australia. He is the author of two books, the short story collection Letter to the Author of the Letter to the Father and 926 Years with Kyle Coma-Thompson. Midnight Grotesques, with Michelle Lynn Dyrness, is forthcoming from Sublunary Editions.