’Judy baby, Judy baby, Judy.’
’I tolt ya nah ta call me dah.’
’Ah love, me love, ya’ve goh me babby in ya.’ Gilly’s eyes are sun burnt bloodshot, his hand tight on a can of fizzy sedative. Judy’s concentrating on Little Britain, mouthing the repeat’s stale dialogue, feigning a laugh.
’Did ya noh hear me madra?’ he asks, and spits on the sticky carpet, the broken saliva string, silting his chin.
Judy lights another cigarette, her hand shaking, and ignores him, coughing on the first cool drag. She’s quiet for a moment.
’Come ’ere,’ she says, her eyes never leaving the set. ’When’s Anto calling round? When’s he round?
Ya said he’s was comin’ round.’
Gilly stands uncertainly, drops the can and stumbles to the kitchen, his vision a weaving pendulum. At the sink he pauses, fists the tap and swings his face under the icy stream. His eyes, open to the water, burn, and he swallows and snorts a head full out against the basin. Judy’s at his side, hand under his chin, holding him up; the hotness and roundness of her belly between them.
’Is he comin’ Gilly? I’m hur’in.’
He shakes his head and wraps thin arms around her; her poppyseed skin and wilt of cheek, her hair slick and greased and bound. Still beautiful. They share a kiss, the fume of lung butter a sweet tar exchange. The baby kicks between them. It’s all good.