Ticking Time Bomb

Date: 12/31/2025

I don’t usually like sweet things. But today my body craves sugar with the urgency of an addict scratching at their skin. I want all of it. Haribo, fudge, sour belts, things dyed colours not found in nature. I load my basket with sweets, sweets and more sweets until it bows under the weight — plastic ribs creaking, corners weeping excess. The man behind the counter raises a brow. Judging, curious, faintly concerned. Let him judge. I need the hit. I upend the basket. The avalanche begins. Beep. Beep. Beep. It’s getting ridiculous now. Who needs this much crap? I shift my weight, feel my face heat. I’m suddenly very aware of my hands, my breathing — the way I exist too loudly in small spaces. Beep. Beep. Beep. Then I see them. Two jumbo bags of Quavers. Neon orange nostalgia. Childhood. Grease-dust fingers. Simpler times. I grab them and plonk them on top. The shopkeeper exhales. Long. Patiently annoyed. I realise I have no idea how I’m going to carry all this home. Buyer remorse lands hard. “On second thoughts,” I say, too brightly, “I’d better put the Quavers back. I have to carry this.” “We do home delivery,” he says. Too fast. Too keen. Like a man offered a chance to be rid of a problem. “Hmm,” I say. “Okay.” Sold immediately. Outside, the air hits me cold and accusing. My phone buzzes. A message. From Sophie. Sophie-who-I-haven’t-spoken-to-in-two-years. Sophie-who-exists-now-as-a-vague-ache-rather-than-a-person. When’s the party? Party? My stomach drops through the pavement. Panic — pure, blinding panic. Apparently I agreed — probably drunk, definitely optimistic — to host a get-together for the girls. Long enough ago for my brain to quietly delete all evidence of it. If I ignore it, maybe it dissolves. People forget things all the time. People forget me all the time. Then: a solution. Maxi’s birthday. Two birds. One socially awkward stone. I can invite them, pretend this is the thing I promised. Nobody needs details. Well. Sometimes it’s just not worth the effort. I wait. Hours stretch thin and papery. Balloons sag in their assigned corners. Nibbles sit untouched, sweating under cling film. Enough chairs for everyone — this time. A detail I thought might finally make a difference. It doesn’t. No one comes. Not a damn soul. Maxi takes one bite of cake, pulls a face, and announces he’s going back upstairs to his computer. He leaves his plate behind. I sit in the quiet aftermath, surrounded by preparation with no audience. I can’t tell if what I feel is sadness or relief. Probably both. A bitter cocktail. Still — there are enough sweets and Quavers to last a year. So it’s not a total failure. I tell myself this like it’s wisdom. The scene fizzles out like air from a deflated party balloon. I’m back at work. The familiar hellscape. Parcels stacked like unspoken resentments. I’m out with Charlotte and Daz. Daz —usually sunshine in human form — looks hollowed out. Wrecked. His shoulders slope inwards, eyes bruised bluish-purple. “You okay, Daz?” I ask, tentatively. He launches into a rant about his wife. The words tumble, fast and jagged. I assume infidelity, abandonment — the usual survivable catastrophes. I try to lighten the mood, lift his spirits. “It’s okay,” I joke weakly. “She’ll come crawling back.” His face collapses. “Back from the dead?” The words land heavy, wrong. “Your wife has died?” I ask. Too softly. Too late. He nods. Tears spill without warning. I hug him. Charlotte joins in. Three posties, clinging together in the middle of a round, grieving like we’ve forgotten how not to. I feel his grief seep into me, take root. I start crying too, though I’m not sure what for. Then Daz is Andy — sweet, rosy-cheeked Andy. I tell him he’s welcome to stay at mine if he doesn’t want to be alone. Of course I don’t mean it. We don’t have space. Plus, I don’t want humans bleeding into my precious private hours. But the words come out anyway — generous, automatic, hollow. The sentiment dissolves. So does the scene. I’m in a shopping mall now. Liz — who-isn’t-quite-Liz — is with me. Her face flickers when I look at her — someone else, and then back again. It’s unsettling, but I haven’t got time to dwell on it. She’s on a mission, moving too fast. Heels click-clacking against marble. I trail behind like a breathless afterthought. Always an afterthought. Her friends appear, seamlessly, and edge me out. Bodies angle. Conversations tighten. I’m pushed to the rim of the circle, where sound thins and eye contact never lands. Bastards, I think. I shove one of them. She stumbles, nearly topples into a bin. Serves her right. She glares at me, eyes frosted, lethal. For a moment I imagine strangling her with her own garter belt and feel strangely calm. There’s more jostling, more scrambling for Liz’s attention — Liz, who is blissfully oblivious that World War Three is well underway. Someone shoves me hard. Garter Bitch. I go down. My bag spills open. Three lonely items scatter across the floor. Silence. “A bomb?” someone gasps. I don’t know how it’s there. I swear it isn’t mine. I scramble, heart pounding, shove it back into my bag. I’m not usually the type to carry explosives around in my handbag. I don’t even like loud noises. Everything changes. Fear rearranges the hierarchy instantly. Arms link with mine. Liz presses close. The others trail behind like obedient dogs. I hate how good it feels — to be seen, to matter, to finally hold weight in a room. We walk like this for a while. It’s like old times. Moving together as if we belong. Then — a sound. A jingle. Cheerful. Idiotic. Not my phone. The bomb. No. Not a bomb. A toy. Flashing. Glowing. A singing disco ball from hell. “You didn’t seriously think this was real, did you?” I laugh. Too loud. Liz lets go of my arm. It drops awkwardly to my side, swinging sorrowfully in abandon. They leave. Just like that. The toy spins at my feet, glowing, accusing. The scene detonates in glitter. I’m somewhere nameless, inside a house just as lost. Paul — my manager — is drilling into a white wall, making a mess of it. Plaster everywhere. He looks incompetent. Frantic. Like he’s never held a drill in his life. “Let me help,” I say, picking up a hammer. He flinches. Backs away. Arms up in surrender. “I’m not going to hurt you,” I say. “I’ll just knock a nail in.” “Oh,” he says, taking the hammer from my hand and smiling tightly. “Best if I do it.” Like I’m dangerous. Like I’m unhinged. Like I might explode. I walk away, deflated. Nobody trusts me today. They see volatility where there is only need. Noise where there is only hunger. They treat me like something ticking under the surface. A bomb. A threat. I’m tired of people tiptoeing around me. Tired of being misunderstood. Of being edged out, overlooked, handled with gloves. I’m tired of being me. I reach into my bag. The sweets are gone. The Quavers too. Only the toy remains. Still glowing. Still singing. I don’t throw it away. I just let it tick.