By Laurie Avadis

An everyday story of a 32-stone policeman determined to kill his son

Wednesday, 17 September 2014

Of rain and of shadow

She wore red sequinned shoes
and every now and again she
espied them
and part of her right eye

When she sat down beside me
in the train carriage
she was like an occupying army
laying siege to the armrest
erecting pontoon bridges
across my leg space

My fingers were forced to abandon my laptop to an uncertain fate
and retreat
until I gave the impression
of a man in prayer

I unfurled a small notebook
and began to write
but she took this as an act of provocation
leaning in towards me
her face and upper body as erect as a misericord
"You writing about me in your book you shabby little man?"

"Not you" I sought to disabuse her.

"Why not" she demanded "ain't I good enough to write about?"

Her eyes darted from face to face challenging other passengers to betray her
As so many had
As so many would

She was made of shadow and I of rain
and neither of us were worth saving

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