She was smoking a roll-up when I walked in. Been feeling tired. Went to bed and woke up a different colour. Bright orange to be exact. At the hospital, she climbed onto the table, affronted, because there was a hole in her tights and her knickers were out of Poundstretcher.
Afterwards, we drove to the Cooperative for some messages. Under the stark fluorescent lights she seemed to glow brighter than ever, lolling against the soft drinks counter in her too-big coat, like a wee lassie.
You look like you've been Tango'd, I said.
Later, her colour deepened. Visitors fluttered around like moths, as she lay gulping glasses of ginger, bathed in an Irn Bru glow.
I tweaked her arm. Made from girders eh?
Every morning I wheeled her into the smoke room. Watched the spark go out of her. The hag with the fag. Waited, as the bony frame, kindling limbs, crumbled in a puff of reek. Ticked her menu card, like a waitress in a restaurant. Held a tumbler of Tizer to her lips.
You're getting to be a right wee juice baby, I said.
Then, one day, her face clouded over. I saw a darkness creep in. But when I looked out the window, the sky was just as blue, the trees just as green. So, I swallowed the skelf in my throat. Made ready my voice.
You're exactly the same as this Lucozade, I said, gazing into her yellow eyes.
Pure gold.