Vetti's Lunchbox

Under the bed lives a monster named Clive. He has big boney hands, spikey crazy hair and painful bunions. He lives under Harry’s bed but there isn’t much space so he bumps the sides when he rolls over, scratches the floor when his hands hit the ground and shakes the bed when he snores. He has trouble sleeping there. It’s not very comfortable and he tries to escape some nights, but Harry wakes up and almost sees him so he curls back up under the bed and tries to fall back to sleep. He doesn’t want to scare poor Harry.

Jane stood over her freshly brewed skinny capachino at the corner cafe. It’s the moment in everyday were Jane’s life stood still. The morning was filled with children fighting to get out of bed, fighting over the bathroom, what to wear, what to eat for breakfast, what seat they sat in on the way to school. Not to mention fighting with her husband to get out of bed, to get out of the ensuite, to “just pick a tie and get your shoes on!” And finally… “I’ll drive”. Even though he had to swap over in just a few minutes.

The steam from fresh mugs of coffee swirled in the air lingering between them. It’s animated form the only break in their awkward silence. Sue looked at her husband contemplating his expression. Hank’s eyes bore the deep lines of sleep deprivation now jostling awake through each sip of the black brew. The chemo had taken a lot out of both of them.
Sue brushed her fingers over her wedding ring. Hank had stuck by his word, “Through sickness and in health, till death do us part”. She chocked at the memory of Hank standing smirking as he spoke. Still handsome.

Two down: a acronym for the tax department. ATO. Pencil scribbled at the paper given out at the train station. Anything to fill in the time to get home. Hands cover in her white gloves ignoring the lead marks she will need to disinfect later. Heather had traveled on public transport for many years and still disdained the close vulgar exchange of body heat, fluids and germs. Her back stayed stiff in contrast to the rocking motion of the train along the tracks.
She would need to wash these gloves the very second she was home. A man sneezes.
Bleach.

Prue is looking over the bills fanned out over the table. They had been gathering for months. A call from her bank made her wake from her extended day dream to realise that something had to be done. Folded inside her night gown she reached over the table to the ones with the red letters stamped “Urgent”. She picked up the house mortgage. Over due in Billy’s name.
The phone. Over due in Billy’s name. The electricity Over due in Billy’s name. The credit card.
Their whole life wrapped up in his name; now it was stamped into a grave stone.

Red. The signature colour for anything strikingly bold.
Red lips, red cars, red heals, red hair, a dozen red roses.
Me, I’m a yellow girl or orange. I don’t mind the odd watermelon pink but red has never been my colour. I’ve been known to flatter maroon but merocan red was the disaster during a hair dying attempt following a university discovery phase. Damn thing wouldn’t wash out for nine months. The same incubation period as a baby. The universe telling me something, if you change something about yourself and it could be permanent.
Red is just not my colour.

Da doonk, da doonk. The train passing under the window was hardly noticeable anymore. Tammy’s move to the city had been an adjustment to say the least.
The kettle boiled clicking off as the toast jumped in the toaster. ‘Good morning’ she said to herself as she needed to everyday to confirm her decision to move was the right one. Her divorce papers were finalised only yesterday.
She also got a call yesterday evening during an important meeting at her new job which was not great timing.
“Not now mum. Can I talk to you later?”
“It’s your father dear”.

Jenny clicks her pen sipping on a fresh made cup of tea. Another light clicks off around her. “Good night Jenny”
“Goodnight Burt.”
“Don’t stay too long” he smiles.
“I won’t” her standard response. He gives a slight wave then exits. Another light goes off. “Night” a voice calls. Jenny hardly lifts her head to acknowledge.
Since the redundancies she has been falling behind in everything. Her normal duties, the ones she signed a contract for and the additional duties that “management from time to time sees fit” piled up around her.
Sigh. The clock clicks over. Delegation; managers prerogative.

Dainty was not a word associated with Martha. In her life time she’d been everything from clumsy, frumpy, outlandish, crude, rude, eccentric, spontaneous, vulgar, quirky and charismatic. Her charms to men only matched by her enthusiasm to out smart them.
Her feminine curves now faded below her dress line as her body shrunk away from its former glory. Grey, pale and knees failing she faced the nurse commenting on her “dainty” hands. “Do you crochet?”
With sharp tong she re-birthed her former youth.
“No that’s my signalling hand.” She twisted her wrist and held it up extending only one finger.