Eve White: Literary Agent

from BRING ME SUNSHINE

It’s two o’clock in the morning and I am listening to Black Sabbath on my iPod, in bed. I can’t sleep because I’m watching the rain on my bedroom windows. I’m remembering Dylan’s honeyed smell and wondering why I’d notice that after all this time. I’m looking at the drum kit in the corner of my room; untouched in months, and covered in dust. I’m thinking about how Carla Azar the Autolux drummer, fell off a stage, shattered her elbow and was told she’d never drum again. Several hours of surgery and a handful of titanium screws later, she’s back at the kit as if she’s never been away. And I’m playing with the idea of getting back on my own kit, just like I’ve never been away. Between tracks, I hear a noise outside in the front garden. I’d like to ignore it because I wouldn’t put it past Watson and his meathead mates to pull up our plants or something; just for a laugh. But I can’t. I get up, move back the curtains, and see Dad. He is wearing his blue pyjamas and holey slippers, and he is leaning over the wheelie bin. He’s had trouble sleeping since Mum died and I guess he’s putting the rubbish out. It’s the kind of thing he does these days. But he falls, backwards. I don’t know how. I grab my dressing gown and run downstairs and out into the front garden. He’s sitting there on the wet grass, in the rain, looking at his hands. “Are you all right?” I say. “I can’t find it,” he says. “Can’t find what?” I say. “That damned wallet. I know I had it.” I feel guilty then, “It’s okay,” I say. “We found it in the fridge.” “The fridge? What silly sod puts a wallet in the fridge?” “Beats me,” I say, supporting his elbow while he stands. I take him inside and fetch a clean towel from the airing cupboard. “Are you all right? Did you hurt yourself?” I say, wrapping the towel around his shoulders. “I’m not a baby,” he says. “I can do things for myself.” He yanks the towel from me and starts to dry his hair. “Sorry,” I say, “I was trying to help.” “Then you should have told me about the wallet. I haven’t slept a wink all night,” he says. “Where is it now?” “Your coat pocket,” I say. “Okay. Well no more hiding it in the fridge? You understand?” he says. “You know what I’m like.” I bite my tongue, apologise again and go back to bed. It’s two-thirty in the morning. I am listening to Black Sabbath on my iPod again, and I’m watching the rain drops on my bedroom windows, wondering why they look so much like tears.