Exercises In Control – Annabel Banks

I’m well known for it. Expensive knives. Coriander.’ Some cookery skills. An interest to be shared. Pride in preparation. Etcetera. Because it’s all just health (exercise, good food) and confidence (education, job) but never the moments written in tiny letters, redly, on the inside of a limb. He, whoever he is at this point, will pay for our coffees and I will pay for our next. He will demur. Someone will concede.

And our secret information remains covered. This is the definition of politeness. Because this isn’t meant to hurt. It was my first lorry. Long distance driver, typically tubby but sweet- smelling. A picture of a horse in a silver frame on the dashboard. Loose hands on the wheel, loose questions to pass the time. I’d climbed three steps to enter his kingdom. It made me feel safe.

‘Music?’ He stabbed a finger at the stereo, and I saw a cut on the back of his hand, raised like a cat-scratch. ‘You pick.’ I fiddled with buttons, but didn’t press anything. ‘What do you like?’ ‘Everything.’ A nothing reply, coffee-tongue worthy. There was no coffee here. ‘Do you really like everything?’ ‘Prefer the quiet, truth be told.’

‘Yeah.’ I got that. I really did. A smooth rumble massaged my bones. It would have been a shame to hide it under beats and the failings of a flawed lyric. ‘Let’s leave it off and talk.’ ‘What do you want to talk about?’ I leant my head back, kicked off my boots. Brought my knee up to my chest.

Because he lied about signs. Because scissors are everywhere. Because I am free Wednesday, I decide to meet. DarkSky00, five feet eleven, council worker, team sports and cooking. He had wanted to take me for pizza, but I never agree to mealtime durations. Exit routes need to be kept clear. After some smiley-icon lying from me he’d agreed to tea and cake, placeholder ideas that realised into a glass of wine for him and a coffee for me.

‘It’s not that I have anything against her. It’s just she didn’t tell me why.’ His marriage, ended in shattered glass and bare feet; his need to talk about it. I didn’t mind. There was no harm here, in this lack of attraction. Motorbike admiration. Questions of helmet safety. A road with clear white lines to follow. ‘So, I’m having fun just getting out there. What do you like to eat?

Curry?’ ‘Well, I—’ ‘It’s just that my ex was sensitive to spices. We ate a lot of bland food.’ He had another wine.

Margaret is the boss, so you suppose it’s okay that she leaves early. Actually, you’re glad. By five to six the offices are empty, quiet aired. The cupboard of cleaning supplies is just large enough for a chair to fit between the boxes of bleach and stinky rags, so you can sit and look at the list of jobs for that night. Margaret is always careful to mark up the set of instructions on the dry-wipe board.

They are always the same, so you don’t know why she bothers. Sometimes it’s written in red, sometimes in blue, but closes with the same smiley-face whose smile is more pointed than a curve. It means business. You drop your tabard over your head, screw in your earbuds – blue, blue, electric blue – and drag the vacuum cleaner from its corner. Atrium first, then the halls, sucking the day’s skin cells from the nylon pile.

The first room is meant for visitors. Photographs of rural landscapes, oil wells, some school prize-giving where everyone is in animal masks, have been blown-up, poster size, and bolted to the wall. You rub a cloth over the fields and faces. Turn out the light when you leave. The second is more of a kitchen, although there are no appliances. Thai food in plastic boxes, piles of fruit, apples and bananas arranged in balanced displays.

On the far wall, rows of toothbrush holders have been fixed to cheap plastic shelving. You counted them once, when you were either curious or bored. Thirty across, five rows down. One hundred and fifty brushes, and never enough toothpaste. In the evening’s hush you can take a moment here. You bring out your own brush from the pocket of your tabard and have a cheeky scrub, give some minty spit to the bin you then tie up and lug downstairs to the skip.

Up some stairs, down some stairs. Blue, blue, in your ears, and you’re not allowed inside this room at all, but that’s why you come here.

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.

Book Information

• Unique ID: 28de79ed36e62074
• File Extension: .pdf
• File Size: 995,334 bytes (0.949 MB)
• Title: –
• Author: Unknown
• ISBN: 9781910312476, 9781910312483
• Pages: 85
• Language: English (en)

Reading & Word Statistics

• Estimated Reading Time: 110.16 minutes
• Total Words: 22,031
• Total Characters: 120,532
• Average Words per Page: 259.19
• Average Characters per Page: 1418.02

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