The Grub

Abstract

You have nothing else to say; this is much harder than your mum made it seem. The woman raises her eyebrows at you over the desk, somehow staring you down from a stunted swivel chair. Eyes fixed on your belly, she oscillates in her seat, head unmoving and birdlike, atop a swivelling body. Remember when your mum bought those chickens to keep you busy? It’s the same look. She’s saying something. It’s too late to listen. Just nod; that usually works.