"Polyester Bride" • Liz Phair (by Federica Silvi)

What I could be mad about today: Harriet’s futon that was never a futon, just a stained old single mattress she had me drag out of her storage cubicle and cram into an UberXL all by myself. How I have to prop it up against the wall every morning, so it doesn’t block the living room door. How, after all her stay-as-long-as-you-likes, it’s been two months and I’m still without a key. 

What I should be mad about: my phone going off all night, the screen’s harsh white light screaming no sleep for you right in my face. It was Steve, of course. My ex-boyfriend Steve, that fucking idiot Steve, up at 3AM to tell my voicemail his two-year affair was a one-night stand. 

What drives me mad eventually: a lost cat advert near the pub. Standard blurry photo from someone’s phone, flattened onto copier paper with a side of please, reward, very shy. A tabby cat picture in black and white? Do me a favour. It’s like reporting a burglary without saying what’s missing. Do these people even want it back? 

*** 

I shouldn't be here. 

Two months without so much as a Bailey’s truffle from the work Christmas do, you’d think I’d feel better. You’d think sipping the lime-and-sodas Gaz slips me over the counter would make me proud, but it just won’t do. Takes the fun out of things, you know. 

Harriet said she’d hand me her key, it’d take a second, I’d be out before I could say “red wine”; yet all I’ve seen of her is a washed-out blue apron fluttering to and from the kitchen, and a hand stretched out in a hasty five-minute sign. I must have been waiting an hour now: half wasted rummaging in my pocket, crumpling the leaflet I yanked off the street; the other half spent talking crap Gaz only tolerates because it’s a slow night. “Why do they even do that?” 

“Do what?” 

“Lost pet pictures in black and white.” 

I flatten the balled-up sheet on the counter and drum a fingernail on the pixelated cat. “Must be cheaper? Why not, I guess.” 

“Because a cat is a full-colour thing. Grey? Orange? Brown? You wouldn’t recognise this one if it took a shit on your tap.” 

He looks at me as if he’d never heard me swear. Which must have been true, once, long ago. 

“Go home, Beth, you’re tired.” 

I don’t get up right away. Go home, he mouths again, suddenly serious. If only, I almost reply, but then his mouth stretches into an overly courteous smile, and I notice the paying customer waiting for my chair. 

*** 

Sleeping at the back of the pub looks as pretty as you might imagine: drool down my chin, head against the rubbish bin, fingers numb from the cutting cold. At some point, this must have seemed better than the alternative. Better than the house I can’t get into, or the one I left, swearing to some god or other that I’d never go back. 

A shuffling noise startles me awake, and reveals its shape a moment later. Tiny striped face peeking out of a cast-off crate; pointed ears; glowing round eyes scanning the dark. I click my tongue, say come here, tap the ground three times. The cat slinks forward, just out of my arm’s reach. I can’t tell if it’s grey, orange or brown. Between one lost creature and another, it makes no difference.

Federica Silvi is an Italian writer and translator based in London. She has published flash fiction and creative nonfiction on Dear Damsels, Funny Pearls, Memoir Mixtapes, Visual Verse, and more. Her first published literary translation piece appeared on Asymptote in 2025. Find her on Bluesky as @edgwareviabank.