Bob felt an itch creeping up the inside corner of his leg slowly climbing up inside him. He went to the shop and looked for bread; he could not find any.
Where is your bread? Bob asked the man.
The man said: We do not have bread, there is none. Bob swivelled on the balls of his feet, walked away. Outside the sun was shy but sharp; often it ran behind grey cotton wool clouds waiting to say Peek-a-boo. The pavement Bob walked on was flat but in some places it was not flat. Bob walked with his hands deep in black coat pockets. His nose was cold at the tip. Bob thought: This nose does not belong to me. Just then the sun said Peek-a-boo! then ran away.
Who does this nose belong to? thought Bob, if it is not mine then it should not be on my face.
A lime green breeze slid over Bobs right shoulder. Bob changed direction, turned into a new street. The clouds in the sky held their rain. Bobs eyes rolled downwards, and there he saw it. Faster now he walked, and faster still, yet he could not loose it; that which followed him everywhere that he went. Into the police station he stepped.
I would like to report something, Bob told the man. The man behind the counter had his own nose; it sat on his face. Standing on his feet the policeman said:
Yes,
I have something that does not belong to me, said Bob.
Yes, said the policeman.
Why should I carry the weight of that which does not belong to me?
Yes, said the policeman.
Bob parted his thin dry lips to say and there it was. Sitting on a small brown wooden table, he could see it clearly over the policemans left shoulder: a loaf of bread.
Where did you get that bread? Bob asked.
The policeman licked his bottom lip and said: That is not for you to wonder on, Bobs forehead creased into a thrown, he did not notice this, neither was he aware of the saliva welling up in the dome of his mouth. His pulse quickened.
That is sliced bread. Not for you to wonder. said the policeman. Bobs eyes narrowed.
The bread was perfectly still.
Fill in this form. A lone cloud floated overhead, others followed it.
Write on it, said the policeman.
What shall I write? asked Bob.
Your name, write your name with this pencil, on that sheet of paper.
The paper on the table was flat and grey. It had one black line on it. The edges of the sheet of paper where sharp, pointed. They pointed nowhere. Bob picked up the pencil it was a stick of lead wrapped in wood from a tree. The tree had come from a forest, where a man had cut it down with an axe before he ate a sandwich for his lunch. On the line Bob wrote: BREAD. He pushed the sheet of paper towards the man behind the counter. Policeman said:
Where did you come from?
I...
Bobs mouth became dry.
How do you know of the bread? asked the policeman behind the counter.
I...
What is the colour of your bread? the clouds began to break. Is it sliced?
And Bob became dizzy. The room, which was grey, began to spin. Only the bread was still.