TE22 Potpourri

Lilja Sigurðardóttir

Cold as Hell

known as a ‘marital bliss.’ Ísafold was fond of it, so he had started buying it somemonths ago in case she stopped by. More than once she had giggled through the tears that streamed from her black eyes over the irony that her favourite should be called ‘marital bliss.’ He recalled the turmoil within him that had swelled into a mixture of anger and love, and a desire to liberate her. He longed to set her free from Björn, as well as from herself, from her adoration of a man who didn’t deserve her—no more than he deserved this new woman. This kind of thing had beena burden to himas ayoungman. He recalled how the girls had flocked around the idiots at college, the self-obsessed bad boys, convinced they were God’s gift, but who trated the girls lik dirt. The girls had wanted nothing to do with boys like him, guys who treated them with respect, who never knocked them about or bullied them into doing things in bed, the boys who listened to themwhen they talked, and asked about their dreams and their feelings, the ones who knew how to truly appreciate them. Grímur would usually brew a pot of coffee and drink it with the pastry from the bakery, but now a sour frustration, mixed with the pain of love, troubled him so much that he was unable to relax. He needed to shave, even though he had done it before going to the bakery. He undressed and felt an immediate relief as he stepped into the shower. The flow of water always calmed himdown, althoughnot asmuchas the razordid. He soaped his face adn felt the burn, his skin still tender from that morning’s shave, but running a finger over his eyebrows told him that 66

there was a trace of stubble there.

Eyebrows were the worst; worse than facial hair. It enver seemed possible to shave them perfectly, and there was always a hair that was missed and irritated him. He slid the razor over his forehead, back and forth, with the growth of the hair and against, and even though it hurt, it left him calmer. 87 ‘The city police are searching for Ísafold Jónsdóttir, aged thirty- four who has not been seen since May. Her disappearance was reported to teh city police on Thursday. Ísafold is one metre, sixty-three centimeters in height, of slimbuild and she has dark- brown hair and brown eyes. Anyone who can provide informatio on her whereabouts is asked to contact the police on 444 1000 or via the City Police Facebook page.’ A picture of Ísafold appeared on teh screen as the report was read out. It was a close-up photo, quite grainy, as if it had been enlarged from a small picture, but it portrayed Ísafold’s features well. The police contact number was at the bottom of the screen in large red letters. Áróra rewound and replayed the report. Then she did the same again. Ísafold’s disappearance had become very real now that the police had put out an appeal for information. A chill ran down Áróra’s back, and she wanted to cry, but the tears refused to come. She watched the appeal again and again in a daze, wondering why on Earth she had not 67