Januariad

Conor slouches at a full four feet, three inches. His true height is a matter of theoretical speculation only. He could mass four stone under that tracksuit, he could be seven. His shape is a mysterious micaceous structure of starched and vented sports materials. Above his collar it smooths into winter pale, near-translucent skin, a heavy scatter of freckles, two green eyes under white-bone features. The uniform, invariable hair.

He comes up the hill, without much sign of exertion, on a bike two sizes too large for him. The seatpost has been fully retracted, allowing his feet to reach the pedals if he adopts a straight-backed, half standing posture. The bike is too big, too expensive, absurdly thoroughbred. He’s cycling it on the footpath, allowing the front wheel the freedom to weave and shimmy, trailing its winding path unconcernedly. From the underside of one dropped handlebar hangs a twisting plastic bag. Two knuckles of one hand are wrapped around the timber of an ice pop. In free moments he raises this hand to his mouth, slurps hurriedly, then lowers it again to grasp the spongy tape of the handlebar. The white faux-leather under his grip is sticky and stained with orange syrup. The plastic bag swings as he steers, knocking off his knee, heavy with a litre of milk or a fizzy drink or some other summoned thing.