By Constance Allan

Burned Butter

I split a wafered chocolate bar. You’re allergic but wanted to taste it, so I snapped it, then worried I’d killed you. You were okay. Your sore tummy passed. 

That night, we lay in our beds, two tippy-toe thumps of floor between us. 

‘Are you awake?’ you whispered. 

‘Nope.’ And we both laughed, quietly. We didn’t want to wake Mum. The other girls slept down the hall and we wondered if they were talking too, under their matching quilts trimmed with marshmallow pink lines of fake velvet. Our blankets of checkered green and orange were just as sophisticated, thank you very much! 

Too loud, Mum heard us. 

We wrote a language made of jumbled letters. It wasn’t very good, but I still know how to say your name in it, and you mine, I hope. 

At school, you sat with your friends, and I sat with mine. I would have preferred you.

A while later, we fought over a black dress. And a while after that, you zipped me into it.

Some nights, the others went out to their lives. You told Mum we’d clean up and I contributed large, quick nods. Pancakes for dinner. The pan was always too hot, the butter turned brown. Ice cream made from sugar and soy, berries meant for Dad’s breakfast, maple syrup, a mango divided. I’d let you have the seed because stringy parts get stuck in my teeth, and you’d thank me like I’d given up something I wanted. 

You left home and went south. I went north. I see photos of you dressed in my clothes.

Sometimes we’re in the same place. In the days after, we don’t speak. The hangover is enough, and hair of the dog disrupts the recovery process. 

I slept well as a child. Now, I don’t. 

My blanket is lovely though.