Eithne was spiking mole runs with hawthorn stakes when the postman arrived with a package.
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‘Addressed to Eros’ he said, aiming the scanner at the barcode.
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‘Like the god?’ she asked, watching the wink of the laser’s red eye.
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The postman shrugged.
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‘Only me here now, Tom.’ They both looked at the house, its cracked gutters, the bluebottle carcasses lining the windowsills.
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‘I can return it to the depot’ Tom said as a ripple of soil erupted by the back tyre of his van. A pink snout sniffed the air then disappeared.
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She took the box. No weight to it or return address, no rattle or slide of contents when shook.
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She put it in the pantry between the Oxo cubes and baking soda; the only place in the building dry and vermin-free.
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She picked up the cuttings again, crouched by the fresh mound of earth. She chose a stem with the thickest thorns, noticing then the buds still intact, the rose-flush of the petals just showing. She ran her index finger over them, smooth as fur. She went back to the pantry, picked out a pickle jar, filled it with water. She dusted the windowsill and set the stems on the ledge. The water caught the pale flash of spring sunlight. Time I spruced the place up a bit, she thought pulling each stake from where she’d placed it that morning, scanning the road for a quivering glint of a vehicle, hope lighting the dark runnels of her heart.