“The peacocks have arrived.”
– The Painted Room, Inger Christensen

The Dead Man is a motherfucker. We hate the guy. We hate him. Hate everything about him, really. Does this thing where he zones out when you speak with him. One minute he’s there, the next not. Click your fingers in his face to bring him back. Click click click. Agrees to do something, the first to volunteer, but never does it. The Dead Man’s mother calls him boy. Calls him boy like he doesn’t have a name. Like she has no respect. Bring the thing, boy. Go to the shop and buy me oil for cooking, boy. Who were you with tonight, boy? Prays in front of a candle for the safety of the boy. Still awake when he gets home, dusting the lamps and the cabinets. Thing is: when he’s out, he’s not doing much. Just not home. Smokes the final puff of a friend’s cigarette or has a few sips of beer then loses interest, forgets which bottle is his. Watches with mouth agape, staring, at the girls or across the harbour where he will drown one day soon, following the lights of a fishing boat or, further out, cargo ships. His friends talk about what they would do if they owned a jet ski or even a yacht but these ideas remain nebulous to him, as if he knows they will be forever out of reach. Listens to love songs at the back of the bus on the way home. Sleeps with a nightlight on. Needs to be awake in 3 hours for work at the carwash, maybe 2. Up before the crows but not before his father, a silhouette taking breakfast on the balcony. The Dead Man is running late and should ride his bike. Hurry, Dead Man, hurry. Instead strolls through the empty streets like a sleepwalker. 

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