The Coil, the Couch, and the Missing Lips.

Date: 10/8/2025

It all began in an enchanted forest. A chirpy tour guide led our little group along a winding path, his tail swishing like a metronome as we followed behind him — a line of ducklings, eager and obedient. Giant trees loomed above, their limbs thick and tangled, reaching for us as we danced through their shadows. At one point, we had to walk through a circle of breastfeeding mums. Their babies’ milky faces turned towards me, mocking, as if they knew something I didn’t. I felt a pang of discomfort and picked up the pace, desperate to press on. Eventually, we reached a colossal old tree that seemed to have been there since the dawn of time. Its trunk was gnarled and magnificent — a monument to everything that grows and endures. The guide clapped his hands together. “You see,” he said, “trees have coils inside them. These coils are the secret to time itself.” He pulled a metal spring from his pocket and stretched it out. “When you pull the coil tight, time slows. But when you let go, it snaps back — and hours can feel like seconds.” I nodded, utterly entranced, as though he’d just cracked the universe’s biggest mystery. And then — I was home. Phoebe, my daughter, called to ask if she could move back in. It was a firm no. She’d long since flown the nest. But a moment later, she walked through the door like she owned the place. She flicked off the “bang-bang shooty” game her stepfather was in the middle of and replaced it with Keeping Up with the Kardashians. Rage bubbled up. How dare she? I asked when she planned to move out again, explaining that we didn’t have enough bedrooms. She shrugged as to signal that no fucks were given, and announced she’d sleep on the sofa — demanding a pillow and duvet like she was still sixteen. Only, it wasn’t the pull-out sofa anymore. The “love sofa” had been and gone. This one was just a sofa. No thrills. No pull out mattress. No sexy time. She scowled. “I’ll move in with Dawn then,” she huffed. “She’s emotionally dependable — and actually shows emotion.” That stung. My heart folded into itself. In the background, my mum was polishing the floors until they gleamed. You could see your reflection in them. She smiled at me, and I smiled back — that unspoken, eternal mother-daughter love. My throat tightened with guilt. Why couldn’t Phoebe and I have that? Then the scene shifted. I was at work, lost in the hum of fluorescent lights. Next to me sat a pair of gloves I was sure were mine — until I noticed tiny hearts stamped into the fabric. “Odd,” I thought, tossing them aside like a bouquet from an ex. For no apparent reason, I pulled out my phone to take a selfie. Just as I was perfecting my pout, Safety Steve (fun guy) appeared in the reflection — his big balloon head looming closer and closer. “Watching porn, are ya?” he said, deadly serious. “Hardly safe, is it?” I snapped. Then — jump. I was at the Tip Shop. My favourite haunt. I scoured the aisles for the garden pots I’d forgotten to buy last time. Gone. Probably decorating someone else’s patio now. Damn. As I wandered, I noticed a door I’d never seen before. “Ah, hidden treasures,” I thought, pushing it open — only to find a school for wizards. Children whizzed past on broomsticks, laughter bouncing off the walls like ricocheting spells. “This ain’t right,” I muttered. “I must be dreaming.” And with that realisation, I launched myself skyward — loop-de-looping like a bird breaking free from its cage, bursting through a window into the night. Liberation. Adrenaline. Bliss. Until boredom set in, of course. I drifted back down to Earth, into a house that felt like mine but wasn’t. My husband was in the shower, singing (more like screeching), steam billowing down the hall. Feeling mischievous, I thought, Why not have some fun? and conjured a man out of thin air — pure fiction, no guilt required — and demanded he go down on me. But just as pleasure peaked, my husband’s mate Rod barged in. “Alright, Amanda? Mat about?” I froze. Pointed towards the steam. He nodded and left. And suddenly — I was on a girls’ night out. Only, these weren’t my girls. Just strangers with familiar smiles, glasses clinking, laughter spilling like champagne. As much as I yearned to lose my inhibitions and let loose on the dance floor (my foot was tapping, but my body was saying NO) I reluctantly stood at the sidelines. An outsider looking in. One of the girls — drunk beyond sense — collapsed across their laps. The others shrieked with laughter. I’d seen enough. I turned to the bar, ordered something strong. To my right stood a woman. Faceless. Just smooth stretched skin over a head. “Would you like me to draw you some lips?” I asked. She nodded eagerly. I pulled out my lipstick and painted her a smile. “There,” I said. “Much better.” But when I flipped open my compact to check my own — nothing. No lips. Just a mound of pale skin where my lips once were. I tried to scream, I tried to whimper. But no sound came out. The world folded into silence.