Good day

He lay on his stomach and rolled the dice at the side of the bed. She rolled her eyes in exasperation.
“It’s going to be a good day, Goldie!”
“Don’t be an idiot, Lee.”
He swung his feet round and sat up on the edge of the bed, poised. He rocked backwards, forwards, backwards again then leaped up and landed on the grubby rug. And the dice. He shouted. She laughed. He swore. She laughed some more.

First published on 24 November 2017

I love you, K

I love you, K. His last words before the plane takes off. Every time. And every time he starts the car. He could not remember when he had started saying it. Perhaps after that time in north Africa when the taxi they had hired for the day played a prayer when the key was turned.

I love you, K. He does not know why, either. It is not as if it cleanses his sins, and he does not believe in sins or prayers in any case.

I love you, K. He says it under his breath so nobody knows, not even K sitting beside him. But of course he is mostly alone when he drives and does not know anyone near him when he flies.

I love you, K. Perhaps he wants it to be the last words to pass his lips if something happens. His heart and his lips would be honest and true. And perhaps, if something does happen, K will somehow know, the words will hang in the air or the ether.

I love you, K. Perhaps they will.

The men sit on the granite slab

The story would come later, when the harp has faded and the fingers stilled.

The men sit on the granite slab, facing the water.

The boat will come soon.
Will you go?
Will you?
It will be a day coming and the winds may move. In the meantime they may move.
No. No, not this time.

The dog crouches, ears pricked, watching for rabbits, hearing the catch in the men’s soft voices.

I’ll not go.
Nor I.
The boat will be here soon.
Not I.

Time passes, touching even the granite. Split in three pieces it stands, each man’s name carved deep in the redness.

Who were they, do you think?
When the boat came they went, two to the mountains and one to the sea. And then they were lost to the men or to the waves. And nobody tells their story no more.

Wind blows, spattering foam. Hand touches shoulder.

Are you crying?
No. No, I’m not crying.