As Good as Rodents

  ‘You’re an anomaly,’ the checkout girl said. I thought I’d misheard the words that had
slipped from her coral-buttered lips. Perhaps she’d said, ‘I think you’re into me,’ or
‘that’s four pound seventy.’
‘Sorry, what?’ I bagged my eggs, wanting her phone number, and she pointed
at my firefighter shirt.
     ‘An anomaly. Running towards danger. It goes against every evolutionary
instinct. Even rodents flee from flames.’
     Maybe her smile was too smirky, or the nightshift had clipped my patience. I
told her she was probably one of those pervy bitches who bought naked firefighter
calendars, that I’d saved lives, and she should show some fucking respect. I glanced
at her nametag. Theia.
     The accident happened within an hour of buying eggs from Theia. My eyes
weren’t scolded by flames as I rescued a child. Instead, they were sliced up by my
shattered windscreen when I t-boned a truck as I texted my mate about a checkout
girl who’d given me sass. I was halfway through typing about wanting to show Theia
my hose, wanting laugh emojis in reply.
     The doctor said I would be grieving a death, like my sight was a person I had to
bury, suffer through anniversaries, birthdays, Christmas, that the first few months
would be the worst. A support worker called me and said there was a group in my
area who knew what I was going through. They could help me, the guy who’d saved
lives.
     Theia was right about me, though. I’m an anomaly. But I’m an evolutionary one
with the survival traits of a rodent. She’s on my mind as I eat peanut butter from the

jar, lapping the oil and salt from my fingertips in my nest of all the duvets, blankets
and sleeping bags I own. As the breaks between my heartbeats continue to
lengthen, I wonder if Theia thinks she’s the reason I haven’t returned to the
supermarket in weeks.
     I wipe my hand on a blanket and search for the long-life cream, greasy streams
travelling down my wrist as I gulp from the carton. When I’m done, I feel for the
crisps, finding the crinkling packet and feasting on handfuls of starchy shards. There
was pity in the grocery delivery guy’s voice when I asked him to pile the food around
me on the floor. If Theia pitied me, I’d puke.
     I press my fists into my new middle and knead my reserve bank, here in my
nest. I’ve stockpiled my body, ready to hibernate, to wake up on the other side of
those first painful months. I’ll bypass the support groups, the grief for my old friend,
Sight. I’ll leave it all behind in some cold, shitty season.
     Now, I’m going to curl up and dream for months of Theia looking at my bare
chest in one of those firefighter calendars, biting her bottom lip before whispering my
name.