The Crack. Charles Lambert

I get there almost two hours early, but it doesn't matter. I know I'll be welcome. I ring the bell and already I can hear Susan's delighted cry from the kitchen as I lower my finger - 'It must be Simon' - and see her form divided into a dozen concave images by the shell-pattern of the front-door glass, each miniature Susan stretching her arms out towards me. She opens the door and I'm drawn in and hugged, my rucksack slumped over on the step. She is wearing a pullover and a long cotton skirt. I feel her stomach…