It happens all the time

by Jane Røken

Just pretend I’m not here, she said. No way, I said, I want to know what you’re doing in my kitchen. I’m looking for a little boy, she said. What makes you think you’ll find him in my pot-cupboard? I said. You never know what can happen when a kid goes into the house of a complete stranger, she said. You mean to say, I said, that your boy walked into my house? But of course, ma’am, she said, I don’t want him to walk on the pavement - look, there’s heaps of unhealthy influences, dog turds and all manner of rubbish, he may fall and hurt himself. I always tell him to go through the houses - it’s safer. But he went in your front door and hasn’t come out the back door, that’s why I’m looking for him. You’re off your rocker, I said, sod off before I call the police. He’s the cutest little boy. Makes it that much sadder, doesn’t it? she said. Most likely he’s lost and gone forever by now. Are you sure you don’t want to take a look in my freezer before you go? I said, - just in case I plan to have him for my Christmas dinner? The cutest little boy, she repeated, all innocent and ethereal, like. Aye, I said, but a tad on the fleshy side all the same.