Once a fortnight

The window ran from the floor almost to the ceiling, and my brother and I jostled each other for a better position at it. From the middle you could see past the trees and out to the road below, we were watching for the headlights of passing cars.


"I bet it's the next one," I said.

"I bet it's the second next one," replied my brother, and punched me.

"Bastard." His mouth fell open.

"Don't swear at me! I'm telling!" he cried, but he didn't. He kept his eyes glued to the road.

It was late, and we were tired and stressed, worried at the idea beginning to form in our minds. Neither of us would speak it aloud, in case we made it true, but it held court in our heads; what if he wasn't coming?

A blue car passed, a station wagon, not our dad's. I lost. Then a white ute, not our dad's, my brother lost.

I grinned at him.

Ha! I crowed.

He stared at the carpet, 'I bet it's the next one then.' We went back to watching the dark road. Minutes passed, then a car I didn't recognise. I turned to my brother, who had lost focus.

'You lose, again, I said.

He looked up, looked back down, and ignored me. He'd found a pin and was carving his name into the wooden window sill, P-E-R...

It was my window sill, my room, so I put my back against the wall and shoved him over with both my feet. He jumped on me. I hit him in the head and he grabbed a handful of my hair and held on. We howled together and crashed into the doors of my cupboard, unsure of what we were really fighting over.

Below us the phone rang, and we froze. Downstairs there was muffled speech, then footsteps. Our mother opened the door and leaned in.

"Was that dad?" asked one of us.

"He had to stay late at work tonight, he said he'd try to come up next weekend... sorry guys."

Our faces fell, our mother left the room. I punched my brother.

Pecas