Elaine sits across from me in the rhyme time ‘circle of imagination’. She opens up a large, brightly-coloured picture book and welcomes everyone to the library with a breathy, enthusiastic smile.
I lick my dry lips and try to force a smile back. I feel the warm, stuffy air invade my mouth. The other four parents sitting around me coo at Elaine with appreciation and clap their babies’ hands together.

My head pounds: da-dum, da-dum, da-dum.

I steal a look at the digital clock on the wall above the biographies section. Four more minutes until I can go home. Nearby, a thin man in corduroy trousers stands, leafing through a Tina Turner text. A loose page falls out but he kicks it under the bottom shelf. He replaces the book where he found it.

An apathetic observer, the clock ticks on.

Da-dum. Da-dum. Tick tock. Tick tock.

I release my cramped limbs from their cross-legged position and lean over to capture my escaping eight-month-old from the carpet behind me. I plonk him back in front and push a stray hair away from my clammy temple. My mouth tastes like the wall of my garden shed. Everyone else’s gaze is focussed on Elaine. I can’t focus on anything except my regret in coming.

Da-dum. Da-dum. Tick tock. Tick tock.

The man sitting to my right is wearing a blue t-shirt with ‘SUPERDAD’ emblazoned on the front in red letters. He lifts his almost-bald, onesie-clad baby to a standing position and she tip-toes a jig on the rough, moss-green carpet. The poor thing stares around at the rows and rows of books, strangers and infants, and especially at the noisy lady in front.

I feel sorry for the both of them.

My baby falls out of his seated position and onto his hands and knees. He’s too young for dragons and giants. He prefers wooden spoons and TV remotes.

Elaine flips over the page, scratches a scab on the back of her hand and continues to read.

Da-dum. Tick tock. Tip-toe, tip-toe. Scratch, scratch.

Three minutes until I can go home.

I stare at Elaine’s bowed head. Her close-cut hair is black and shiny and she wears luminous orange, spiral earrings that pull on her earlobes and reach almost to her shoulders. Her long, dark fingers hold open the thin, square pages of the book, pointing out characters to match her attempts at their voices. Deep within the migraine fog, my mind screams at her to hurry up.

Full of intent, my baby disappears out of my peripheral vision. I force the stray hair back behind my ear again and suck in a stale breath. The machine in the ceiling is blowing sporadic puffs of warm air into the room, whirring itself up to an anti-climactic sigh of musty nothingness. As the motor grinds louder, the red-hot poker in my head burns deeper. I rub my temples, wishing myself a million miles away.

Da-dum. Tick tock. Tip-toe, tip-toe. Whirr, whirr, sigh.

Behind Elaine, a sallow-faced man with a walking stick hobbles past. A sudden gust picks up the few strands of hair from the top of his head, flipping them over like the pages of a magazine. He quickly lifts a hand to rearrange them into place before continuing his journey.

The air con sighs back to rest. I sigh into my chest.

Da-dum. Tick tock. Scratch, scratch. Whirr, whirr, sigh.

Two minutes to go until I can leave.

I can feel my armpits sticky beneath my t-shirt and try to remember if I washed this morning. The memory refuses to surface so I peer around at the other parents in the group, hoping no-one can smell my breath. Then I remember about the baby and turn around to look for him, feeling my t-shirt tug away from the slick of sweat down my back.

Da-dum. Tick tock. Tip-toe, tip-toe. Whirr, whirr, sigh.

I bring him back to the circle and sit him in front of me. I give him a sensory toy and he clutches it. My belly flops at the sight but fails to stop my head from pounding.

The dad with the dancing baby glances at me and rubs his calf muscles. He sniffs, shifts his weight and shuffles an inch or two further away, returning his gaze to Elaine.

I am considering his subtlety just as his baby lets out a cry that sounds like a cat defending its territory. The treble creates a nightmare of a symphony with the base drum in my head. I rifle through my bag looking for my water bottle but can’t find it. I figure I must have left it at home. In place of the real thing, I imagine the ecstasy of ice-cold water running into my parched mouth and down my throat. My tongue catches on the roof of my mouth and the spell is broken.

Da-dum. Tick tock. Scratch, scratch. Whirr, sigh. MEEOAH.

One more minute until I’m released from this hell.

My son curls into a ball and hides his face under his podgy hands just as a raw, unpleasant smell invades my nostrils. I know I should check his nappy but it feels pointless. I have less than a minute to tolerate and the story will be done and I can go home. Back to my safe place. Where it’s just me and the baby. No-one else looking and judging.

Elaine stops reading and brushes her nose with her fingers.

I hold my breath.

She clears her throat and turns the page.

I huff out another stale sigh.

Da-dum. Tick tock. Scratch, scratch. Brush, brush. Whirr, sigh.

The dad exhales loudly. His baby screeches again and he starts shushing. Steady, low shushes that remind me of the sea lapping an empty beach.

I give myself up to the fantasy of an electric blue cocktail and the feel of my legs stretched out on a lounger, the sun’s soothing fingers warming my skin. Then I blink, and realise I am staring and the dad is looking at me like a tourist at hippo mating season. My hair flops in front of my face and I stuff it back behind my ear.
I crack my knuckles and the dad flinches.

Da-dum. Tick tock. Crack, crack. Shush, shush. Scratch, scratch. Brush, brush. Whirr, sigh.

Elaine slaps the book closed.

I blink at the noise. My baby parks his bottom on my thigh and I feel a warm dampness seep through my jeans. I should have fastened his nappy tighter. Or maybe the nappy is too big. Or too small. I rub my temples.
The air con whirrs to a crescendo, emitting an impotent waft. Elaine scratches her scab and thanks us all for coming.

I have one foot on the steel strip marking the final hurdle to freedom when Elaine rests a hand on my shoulder. Fresh air from outside plants a long, cool kiss on my left cheek.

She says it’s nice to see me out and asks if she will see me next week.

Da-dum. Tick tock. Scratch. Tip-toe, tip-toe. Brush, brush. Shush, shush. Crack. Whirr, sigh.

There are no ticking clocks or whirring fans at home. No scratched scabs or rough carpet. No flicking pages or hushed conversation. No hand on my shoulder or listening ear.

Elaine tilts her head and furrows her eyebrows. The scab on her hand bubbles with blood.

I gulp in a mouthful of fresh air and nod. Of course, I’ll be there.

<belonging