1
My books are strewn across your bedroom floor when you’re trying to work.  The creases of your brow tell me to act my age, but I was never good at mathematics.  I sit cross-legged at the foot of your bed with the heavy satin doona wrapped around me, scouring Encyclopaedia Britannica for the answer to the riddle in my dreams.  Spring sits next to me, flicking her tail menacingly and pawing at the pages as they turn.
S
Spring
spriNG •  n. 1. the season after winter and before summer, in which vegetation begins to appear, in the northern hemisphere from March to May and in the southern hemisphere from September to November.

‘I’ve found you a job,’ you say suddenly, as if you had solved the equation for which x is the gradient and all the other variables were previously unknown.
‘Waitressing... at one of our cafes!’  You say our cafes like we owned them and that my employment there would be a novel way to pass my abundance of time, rather than an overly optimistic attempt at re-introducing me to society.
‘If I worked at a café I would never set foot in one again.’  I slam the old book shut at T [Teeth, Teetotaller, Teflon] and the hardcover makes a dramatic thud, spooking the little cat.  She flees the room and I follow her, wearing the doona like a cape.

2
The warm, milky water soaking my skin makes me feel old, prehistoric; time is sliding backwards  – I become the Goddess.  Holding my breath, submerged up to my eyes, I make shapes out of the paint peeling from the ceiling, morphing like clouds, and re-tell the creation of the earth:
In the beginning there was white, endless white space of hollow eternity and nothingness.  Then from the great abyss of nothingness grew crevasses and streams of shadow that grew larger and larger until they became separated from the white…these became islands and countries, growing matter from the cosmic vibrations sent out from the shadow, filling the vastness to drown the silence with the birth of consciousness…

* * *

You shake me awake with a grip on my shoulders, dragging me up, and out of the cold bath.  I can barely speak; my head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton wool.  
‘Oh thank god! Thank god! Sophie, you could have drowned! You’ve got to be careful!  Your medication - you know it makes you drowsy!’ You pull me up so I am sitting now, and you press your face into my shoulder, sobbing into wet skin.  I say nothing.  Spring wanders into the bathroom and rubs her back against my side, oblivious to the source of your concern.  You shoo her away, and sigh heavily as you turn back to look at me.  The wet shine in your eyes is startling and I’m relieved when you take me in your arms, immersed in the safety and lightness of you.  And rocking gently, holding me, your lips touch my ear as you whisper,
‘Please, be careful.’

3
I lay on the cool kitchen tiles, pushing ice-blocks around with the tips of my fingers.  The portable fan on the bench hums persistently, while relieving none of the suffocating heat.  I see your yellow Post-It on the fridge door: Remember to feed the cat, love Mark PS. No more baths!
I named the cat Spring because I found her a month or so ago, in November, when we were both young and new.  She was a skinny stray, found orphaned in the alley behind Jimmy Choo’s.  Now, I find her in the laundry, curled up and sleeping on one of your unwashed shirts.  I scoop her up in my arms like a doll and rub my nose into the soft, white fur of her neck.  She smells like you.  

4
Tthalamus
thal·a·mus / ˈTHaləməs/ • n. (pl. -mi / -ˌmī/ ) Anat. either of two masses of grey matter lying between the cerebral hemispheres on either side of the third ventricle, relaying sensory information and acting as a centre for pain perception.
theism
the·ism / ˈTHēˌizəm/ • n. belief in the existence of a god or gods, esp. belief in one god as creator of the universe, intervening in it and sustaining a personal relation to his creatures.



5
You tell me not to use chemicals on the carpet, where Spring was sick in the living room.  I scrub hard at the stains, absently and methodical. She died in the afternoon – food poisoning.  You say it’s not my fault, but it was. I know it was. I say nothing, but I know – the medication – it makes me drowsy; I don’t think straight, you said so.  

6
The doctor looks at me for long while and then re-phrases his diagnosis:
‘Physically, there is nothing wrong; you are suffering from an acute stress disorder. I have been treating you for this with 100mg of Sertraline, daily, for the past three weeks.  You’ve told me you’re experiencing episodes of drowsiness and mood-swings, this is perfectly normal. An unfortunate side effect of the drug.’  

* * *

I return my Encyclopaedia to the library.    You don’t say anything in the car when you’re driving me home, but your silence is more telling than you think.  
‘I killed Spring,’ I say calmly, with a renewed confidence that startles you.  ‘And don’t tell me it wasn’t my fault.  I don’t want you to make it better.  I don’t need you to.  I don’t need the drugs and I don’t need some religious explanation about it being her Time.  I made a mistake.  That’s all.’  You take the next turn-off and we stop in a McDonald’s car park.  You lean over to me and kiss my forehead, gently, and muss my hair.
‘So you’re okay?’
‘No…  But, I understand the dreams now. And you were right, they’re not important anyway.’  
* * *
I bury her that evening, under a small magnolia tree in the back garden.  The delicate white tepals of the flower remind me of her svelte body.  You ask why I chose the magnolia.
‘It blossoms in the Spring time, when we found her.  She’ll always return to us: beautiful, young and new.’