The Gift

Art had turned forty the day they found out. It was as if the world itself had turned inward and swallowed him whole.

They'd been sitting in a cafe just off the Old Kent Road, eating scones smothered with jam while riding a wave of elation that had not crested in two long weeks. He'd just come off a night shift on the taxis, and the bags under his eyes were heading south. Beside them, builders in Hi-viz stuffed bacon sandwiches down their gobs and slurped from mugs of hot tea.

Julie's face formed something indecipherable when she took the phone call.

"Between us we only have four arms," Art said, finally. "I mean, that's enough for twins. But . . ."

"It's a blessing," she said, fiercely Googling. "Do you know how many women in the whole world have had quadruplets?"

There's probably a reason for that, Art had wanted to say. Though he thought better of it.

A week later she walked into the small kitchen of their two-bedroom flat, laden down with the shopping she was still just about able to carry. Up on the counter there was something big and rectangular, covered in purple velvet cloth, like a magician's trick waiting to happen.

"Octopus bimaculoides," he announced proudly, as he pulled back the cloth. "One of the most intelligent creatures alive."

She wrapped her arms around him, holding on for dear life and kissing his face.

"Art, I love you," she said, whispering in his ear. "But get that fucking thing out of here. It belongs in the sea."