Saturday Night Sunday Morning

>  Hey you.
>> Hey.

I took a long drag and handed her my lighter over my head.

The flint struck twice and I heard her inhale sharply behind me and as I slid over to my left, she sat on the step above me. Her legs brushed my arm and it felt like forever.

She handed my lighter over my shoulder.

>  You’ve been out here a while – you cool?
>> Yeah. Just taking some air. Watching the sunrise.

She barely moved behind me. It’s not that she’s self-assured, but she just always seems to live in the moment, to be effortlessly in that ‘now’.

She barely moved but I could smell her there.

I stared at the little pile of ash I’d been dropping onto one of the leaves beside me. About four hours ago I’d been trying to smoke a cigarette all the way through without ashing so I could lay the whole thing down on it, like some weird funeral pyre. Like with everything, I’d gotten less ambitious over time and now I was just building a mound, waiting for the stem of the leaf to give. It hadn’t yet. But it was obvious to anyone that it would eventually.

She ashed through the stair-rail into the yard.

>  You’ve been out here ages. A few people have been out and in since I last saw you.
… You not really in the mood?
>> Not really. Didn’t fancy it really.

I rattled the packet and looked inside. Three left. I lit another.

The smoke on this one seemed lazy. Just seemed to hang around at chin level for a couple of seconds before drifting away from me.

I blew through the clustered smoke and watched it push away from the centre, and then watched the outer ring follow half-heartedly before just dissipating where it was.

>  How many of those you smoked out here?

I watched as some guy approached and then jogged past the front yard; hooded sweatshirt and nylon shorts, spaniel on a lead trotting beside him looking up sideways at him every few steps to make sure he was still there.

>  Did you want to talk about it?

She had leant in so her head was next to my shoulder. I could feel her breath on me, like a magnifying glass on the morning sunlight against my skin, the hairs on my neck purring to a flat, smooth surface.

I took another drag and kept looking ahead.

>> Not really. It’s not like it actually has anything to do with me anymore.

Her hand was playing with my hair at the nape of my neck. I hadn’t felt her start to do that. I was pretty sure she wasn’t allowed to do that but to be honest, I didn’t really know the rules.

>  Do you want to ask me anything?

The flush from the first floor toilet came rushing through the waste pipe against the outside wall. Someone was washing their hands and half-humming half-singing Three Little Birds. I smiled and without realising ‘this is my message to you-hoo-hoo’ slipped from my lips.

>> What would I ask you hunn?
I don’t really know what I’m supposed to ask you.

She crossed her legs at the ankle and one of the plant pots shifted a little. She crossed them toward me which is supposed to be some significant piece of body language but it wasn’t. Not this time.

>  I dunno. Who he is, how we met, what I think of him… you know, like a friend does.

The sound of her was painfully familiar. I wanted to bottle it and spray it on like a cologne. A protection. Against all of it.

>> So who is he? How did you meet?

She sighed and I could hear the smoke pouring from her mouth as she spoke and stubbed out her butt.

>  I hoped we weren’t gonna be like this D. I’m just trying to move on, you know?

She pulled her legs up out of my peripheral vision but I knew she was hugging them to her chest. I could hear the tears in her eyes. And I could feel them slipping down my cheek.

>> Me too hunn.
Me too.

 

 

This piece inspired by an Elephant Words image originally posted at http://elephantwords.co.uk/2010/01/17/front-porch/.

The following two tabs change content below.
Often musician, sometime projectbloke, occasional table, sporadic writer, serial traveler, irregular designer, internet addict with OCLD.

Latest posts by George London (see all)

There are 8 comments

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

  
Please enter an e-mail address