Baby Boy

Khai has a picture of himself as an eight-year old in his living room. He keeps it up there for when his mum visits. She likes to see it, between two photos of us, the ones before she approved. Just in case, or something. His smile is inspiring, without the Disney. It’s an African smile, babe.

I insist we go out and get drunk, come home, crash land into bed, and become nothing more than a modern art sculpture of arms and legs. I’m drunk; I’m practically a petrol pump.

The bathroom is close. It takes me a half hour to get there. Khai is sitting on the toilet. He’s eight again. He’s crying.

Don’t worry, babe.

He cries some more.

I consider gathering him up in my arms. I pray I remembered to take my pill. I chuck right there in the corridor. Spend the next hour, or lifetime, cleaning it up as best I can. When I’m done, Khai isn’t crying. He’s looking at me with eyes like huge jagged bits of coal. He’s holding out his hand. I try my best not to break his gaze. I’m not sure what will happen if I do. I hear his mum, in my ear, like a mosquito.

I stumble back to bed, back to adult Khai who pulls me to him in his sleep.