Headboard thumps against the wall betray my neighbour's activities. Ed Sheeran on repeat filters in, pleading, gimme love. Burnt-leaf smell of kush drifts, mingling with the stink of sex and sweat. Steady red of wall sockets and flickering orange of blunt glow, alien eyes. Goosebumps erupt, flesh resurrects as Callista traces something on my chest.
"Watchu spelling?"
She giggles. "Guess na."
"I love you?"
"She scoffs. "Which kain? I'm spelling my name."
"Kuku just tattoo it on my forehead."
"Gerraway you." She goes to sit on the toilet, releasing piss. "I still don't get why you smoke only twice a year. I mean, who does that?"
I chuckle, puff.
Inhale. Exhale ...memories magnify.
He's locked himself in the bathroom, smoking, kush clouding all else. The constant criticisms and the rejection from a crush who doesn't think he is a worthy Valentine, being sixteen and four years younger. It fails however to silence the argument streaming from the living room. Sighing, he lifts himself from the toilet seat and stalks the noise. The man is bent over the woman, kicking, dealing punches. Usually, he screams and drags the man off while fending blows, but not today. He watches, mentally removed from the scene.
It is perhaps, her legs thrashing against the table as though finding a way to hold onto something—anything—that galvanizes him. His eyes alight on the flower vase planted on the table. This, he uproots, and smashes against the man's head. Glass shatters, plastic flowers tumble out and the man keels over. It's only when she has gathered him in her arms in teary thanksgiving that they notice the man, now still. A shared glance and they crouch - mother and son - to inspect. From a gash in the head, blood seeps into the red rug. The body moans but neither mother nor son moves till the last breath escapes.
The toilet flushing draws me out to feel Callista brush past into the room, wet fingers grazing my dick. She giggles at my gasp. Tease!
A phone rings. Mine.
The blunt, too small to grasp, lands in the sink. Callista passes the phone.
Mum is on the other end of the line, a scratchy soprano. Hullabaloo in the background, someone shouting, "Hol' it dia!"
"...Happy Valentine's Day, Mum."
"Same to you, Junior."
For both of us this exchange is a seven year old memorial. We cram our love into a conversation that spans two minutes before the blasted beep. The one that says she's shuffling off for another inmate to spend bought minutes with someone on the outside.
I lie to Callista, "Mumsy says Hi."
Callista smiles, her lips seeking mine. I fear she will taste the lie but she straddles me instead. When my hands reach for her breasts, I wonder; can she tell that these hands have killed? Can she?