Verge Collection

Five cups? Why was he throwing out five? There were four people in the house. They entertained a lot – he would never serve a guest a cup of tea that wasn’t part of a matching set. You can’t even buy a set of five cups, can you? He would have bought a set of at least six. Had the other one broken? Yes! That could be it. One of the cups smashed so he’s throwing out the rest. 

The grass crunched under her boots as she manoeuvred around a chafed leather chair. She tried to ignore the memory of her hands around that same cup, when it was warm and filled with peach scented tea. Now cold and hollow in her hand, she placed the white china mug with the blue swirls back in the pile of discarded treasures. 

Verge collections were a cracked little window into people’s lives. The parts of their lives they didn’t want you to see, yet they strew them across the front of their houses like trophies. She shouldn’t be here, speaking to him through the disembowelled insides of his house he no longer had a use for. But every time she tried to walk away, a new trinket caught her eye. His grey tinny office bin, a toy truck with three wheels, a woman’s make-up bag. 

Embers charred inside her as she zipped open that makeup bag. So, this was who he’d replaced her with? A woman who threw out a Chanel makeup bag like it was one of those Coles reusable totes. The zip wasn’t broken, the silver lining still taut, there weren’t even any foundation smudges. If she discarded something like this, it was only a matter of time before his wet, slimy, still beating heart was chucked out on the verge with the rest of her junk. 

She should warn him, shouldn’t she? About what the Chanel bag meant. Despite what happened the last time they’d met, she owed it to him to say something. 

Nodding curtly, as though agreeing to someone else’s advice she started towards the driveway. A fist clenched around her heart when she saw a slim blond figure in ripped overalls and an olive-green sweater peering at her curiously from the letter box. But something worse than The Replacement was approaching from the carport. 

“Babe,” he said to the blond woman, “get the kids, and stay inside.” He stepped in front of her. 

“What’s going on?” his wife cocked her head around his protective body. 

“She’s that crazy stalker girl! The one that used to break in and lie in my bed and make herself drinks!” 

He turned to her, eyes blazing like hot coals. “Get off my property! Now. Or I’m calling the police!” 

But she was already running. The movement was slightly awkward due to the round mug protruding from her pocket. She’d have to be smarter next time. Figure out when the wife went to work so she could warn him properly.