i rage about how jude is a fucking joke as a partner, and my mate cathy squints and purses her lips like she wants to say something clever.
you need a hindolyne, she tells me.
what the hell is that?
it’s a small creature, with short legs and a curved back, similar to an otter. it has the fur of a mink, the claws of a cat, and the tail of a fox, which wraps around its body to keep it warm and help it sleep. its coat is striped in white, black and ginger, and its odour is a blend of earth and caramel, so people call it the sugar tiger.
where does it come from?
historical accounts reveal it has always lived in every continent, and modern research details how the hindolyne does not mate, and has never given birth to children.
how can it exist?
nobody knows.
where do i get one?
when you’ve lost a close relative or friend, or have left a long-term relationship, or you don’t want to return to where you live or go anywhere else, or what you expected to happen in your life is not happening and may never happen, you might be sitting on a bench in a park, staring into space, wondering what you should do, think and feel. something stirs in the dark of the trees, and the hindolyne creeps towards you. its tail brushes against your legs, and its eyes hood half-way. you lean down to pet the animal and tickle it below the chin, and its snout rubs against your knuckles. once it knows you’re friendly, it aches for your arms, and you carry it home.
it sleeps at the bottom of your bed, spreads out on your sofa, and sits on the keyboard of your computer. when it seeks attention, the hindolyne settles on your shoulders like a pelt, or coils in your lap, itching to be stroked. it eats from the same plate as you, follows you to the shops, licks its body clean and uses a litter tray with no complaint. it purrs when happy, and yelps when you step on its tail or paws. but if it cannot see you, it fears it will be alone and lets out a high-pitched cry. this does not resemble the moan of a cat or the shriek of a fox, but the scream of a child.
at the moment when your fondness for the hindolyne fades, something remarkable occurs. it bows its head, scuttles towards an open door, and vanishes. you look for the animal, but find it nowhere. when you crave its warmth with the same intensity as before, it reappears, stretching its legs, curling its tail, and appealing for your embrace. but if your longing does not return, you will never see it again.
how does that help me?
jude must be a sugar tiger. he should be with you only when you love him, such as when he reserves a table at a restaurant you’ve been hinting at for months, surprises you with front-row seats to a show you worshipped as a teen, listens to you rant about your boss, or after a few rounds of margaritas, when you’re both giddy-eyed and bursting with smiles, and fall into each other’s shadow.
then you won’t have to deal with his bullshit. like his obsession with marathons, where he leaves you for the whole weekend, and you clean up your flat, and do the laundry, the big shop and the DIY, only to see him returning on sunday night to dump his sneakers in the washing machine. or when he claims he must get trashed with his colleagues as this is part of his job, and he turns up at three in the morning, and pees by the side of the toilet. the next day, you confront him with this stinking pool of green, and he says: i don’t remember, as if a ghost of him bears the guilt. or when the pair of you go to a party and you’re talking with friends, and you say something brilliant, and he adds ‘you must have watched that documentary i recommended’ or ‘you’ve been reading this writer or that writer,’ implying your thought had to belong to someone else, because you are incapable of wisdom alone. if jude is a hindolyne, such a party will follow a different course. when he makes such a comment, your affection will falter, and he will turn away, walk to the nearest door, pass into the next room, and disappear. he won’t come back until later in the evening, when you’re happily drunk, and need a ride home.
where does the hindolyne go when it’s not wanted?
there are two theories.
the creature wakes up on a pebble beach. clouds are massing. a storm may be coming. it sees a grey wooden hall perched on a cliff-edge, its windows shimmering bright. inside, candles and a log fire reveal floorboards covered with rugs and pillows, where a great furry beast spreads her limbs. in a deep, languid tone, she welcomes the rejected hindolyne, and tells it to choose any place, as there is room for everyone. it slumbers by her hearth, and rests in the curls of the monster’s fleece. from another dimension comes a plea that navigates space and time. this is the hunger of the one who gave it love. when it opens the door of the hall, and steps outside, the hindolyne is no longer by the cliff, but together with its companion again. if this message does not arrive, it relaxes and recuperates on the bed of pillows, waiting for a calling from someone new.
what’s the second theory?
the hindolyne is lost in a thick forest, with only a slit of moonlight guiding its path. as it explores further into the woods, the night grows colder, and the dark stays profound. it encounters others like itself, with the same body, scent and behaviour. this swells into a horde, with each of them wondering why they have been abandoned, and what they have done wrong, when all they have tried to show is tenderness to another. exhausted and desperate, it yearns for the touch of someone, but spurns its own kind, as it fears a heart loaded with nothing. confused at failing to carry out its purpose, it reacts in the only way it can. faithful to its instinct, a cry pours from its throat, shrill and constant. other voices join in. the forest is screaming.
jude must go to that place. i want him to yell like a baby in a mob of animals.
how can you wish that upon someone you love?
you don’t understand love. it’s mother and bastard at once.
MICHAEL BIRD IS A WRITER AND JOURNALIST BASED BETWEEN LONDON AND BUCHAREST, WITH FICTION AND CNF PUBLISHED IN THE LAST YEAR IN SPLIT LIP MAGAZINE, LITRO USA, PORTER HOUSE REVIEW, PANEL MAGAZINE, FINAL GIRL AND ROUTE 57. HIS BODY HORROR STORY ABOUT A 1980S MCDONALD’S MASCOT ‘FRY GIRL 4EVA’ FOR DAILY DRUNK MAG WAS NOMINATED FOR A PUSHCART PRIZE IN 2022. THIS OCTOBER, HE’LL PUBLISH A POST-COLONIAL VICTORIAN HORROR IN AN ANTHOLOGY FOR FLY ON THE WALL PRESS.