Can You See My Saucisse?

Date: 10/29/2025

I’m abroad somewhere hot and vaguely exotic — Greece, maybe, though it feels more like a parody of Greece, built from postcards and plastic suncream bottles. The air is syrup-thick, heavy with exhaust fumes and sweat. I stumble off the coach in flimsy flip-flops, one of the many British exports sticking out like a sore thumb. You can spot the breed a mile off — pasty legs, too-short shorts, bellies like overinflated balloons. One bloke’s wearing a Union Jack T-shirt, as if the world needed reminding where we’ve come from. A chorus of moans erupts the moment we hit the pavement. “It’s too bloody hot!” someone croaks. They aren’t wrong. The heat presses down like a punishment. I’m sweating from places I didn’t know could sweat. We scatter like ants when the guide dismisses us. Mat and I head for the food market, though another couple from the group tag along — uninvited, of course. Their laughter follows us, crude and loud, like seagulls picking at scraps. The market is a labyrinth of smells — fish, chorizo, sun-wilted herbs, pastries sweating oil through paper. Mat’s eyes gleam with delight, a kid in a sweetshop, hyped on sugar. But the longer I stare, the less appetising it all looks. The pastries sag, their edges tinged green. The fish glisten a little too much, like they’re alive again. My stomach turns. A shriek of laughter cracks through the heat. Hyena-like, grotesque. It’s the tag-alongs. They’re undressing — right there in the street. Stark bollock naked. Skin slick with sweat, their laughter echoing. “Can you see my saucissi?” the man bellows, voice bouncing down the cobbles. Mat and I exchange a look — equal parts horror and resignation — and run. I find a balcony, a sunbed just my size, calling to me. The view is dazzling: white walls, blue sea, everything shimmering like glass. I sigh, open my book. “This is the life.” But then a shadow falls over me. “Cuzee me, love. Room for a little one?” The voice is thick with a Northern twang. I don’t even look up. “For fuck’s sake.” She isn’t little. Quite the opposite. She flops down beside me, the lounger sagging under her weight. I feel like it’s going to give way at any second. Her phone blares YouTube shorts at full volume, tinny voices and canned laughter slicing through the air. I flop my book down. There's no hope. “Look at this, love — it’s bloody hilarious!” She thrusts the phone at my face. The word hilarious falls flat, limp as the pastries in the market. I snap. I shove her arm away. “You’re invading my space.” Her face crumples, like I’ve winded her. “I was only trying to make yer smile.” The world flickers. I’m home. The air is cooler, but the walls feel closer, pressing in. The boys are hiding — some sort of game with Granny. She gives us no time to hide properly. I crouch behind an umbrella stand, curled tight as a hedgehog. “I can see you!” she snaps, voice sharp enough to cut glass. “Not the most original hiding place.” Shame burns my cheeks. I unfold myself, limbs stiff, like I’ve been crouched there for years. Later, I go looking for her. The house is silent, wrong. Upstairs, I find her elbow-deep in my underwear drawer. “This underwear, Amanda,” she says, pulling out a pair of frayed knickers as if she’s holding something dead. “It’s seen better days.” She’s right. The sight of them makes me want to shrink into my own skin. “And what are these toy cars doing in here?” she asks, her tone curdling into disgust. “Oh, I’ll sort them later,” I mutter, though I never will. I leave her to it. The smell of must and mothballs follows me down the stairs. Mat’s on the sofa, laptop perched on his knees. “Look at that handsome devil” he says, eyes shining. “Who?” “Rich.” Rich — my friend’s husband. Ordinary. Forgettable. Union Jack barbecue shirt. The ghost of every man we saw abroad. “This is who I aspire to be,” Mat says, dead serious. He hands me the laptop. Rich’s photo fills the screen. His eyes seem to look right through me. “Hmm. Whatever floats your boat,” I say, voice brittle. Mat’s face hardens. He closes the laptop, stands. “I’m going out for coffee.” “But I’ve recorded our favourite programme,” I stutter, “Bargain Hunt!” But he’s already left. The door clicks shut behind him. The house fills with silence. I’m surrounded by people — voices in my head, laughter from streets I don’t recognise — but I’ve never felt more alone. I reach for the slice of cake on the table. At first it looks perfect, golden and inviting. But as I lift it, I see the edges: green fuzz creeping like ivy, spreading inward. The smell hits next — sour, tangy, alive. The phone buzzes. A message flashes on the screen. From Mat. “Look at this, love — it’s bloody hilarious!” Attached is a video. I don’t open it. I don’t dare. Instead, I stare at the cake. The mould’s spreading faster now, devouring the sponge, the icing, everything. It’s beautiful, in a way — velvety, intricate, unstoppable. For a moment, I think I can hear the market again. The laughter. The heat. The same voices looping endlessly in the background. “Can you see my saucissi?” And then — just beneath it — another voice, softer. “I can see you.” The cake moves, almost imperceptibly, as if breathing. Or maybe it’s me.