* * *
I am thirty-two weeks pregnant when they announce it: the water is rising faster than they thought. It is creeping faster. A calculation error. A badly plotted movie, sensors out at sea.
We hide under the duvet with a torch like children. I ask R if he still would have done it. If he had known. He doesn't answer.
He shines the torch up into the duvet and makes his fingers into ducks. I decide to take that as a yes.* * *
I am a geriatric primigravida, but I don't look it.
We have leather sofas. R spills takeaway on them and grins: wipe clean.
I am thirty-eight weeks when they tell us we will have to move. That we are within the Gulp Zone.
I say whoever thought of that name should be boiled in noodles. R spends all night on the same property website. It is loading very slowly.* * *
Man came from a germ. From this germ we fashioned him, from clot to bones to thick flesh. We stood him up on one end, a new creation.* * *
J phones an ambulance and S looks out of the window palely.
I gaze at the wooden floor. I have never noticed how beautiful it is before.
It is perfectly dusk-coloured, and the whorls are rising like dark little planets through its glow.
Between the waves of disembowelling wrench the world is shining. I feel like Aldous Huxley on mescaline. I am drenched in is-ness.