Waiting for Mary
truck stop glowing under fluorescence, bloodshot eyes everywhere. long-haul drivers slumped in the corners. builders with cement dust still in their hair and travelling salesmen chasing the next few quid. cheap knives scraping grease off the plates. old coffee stains dried deep into the formica. above the jukebox, a chalkboard menu with blue and white
The Seafood Special
Saturday night in the pub, and the old man sat hunched over his plate like the weight of every wasted year had finally pinned him there. he sneezed into the crook of his elbow, the same childhood tic that eighty-odd years couldn’t burn out of him. a long, glistening strand of snot stretched from his
St Augustine’s
marked cards and letters filled the top drawer of the old writing desk — two long years of them, correspondence and poems and notes of love and want, all folded away in the quiet dark. he remembered the gate to her front door, the narrow path through the garden where lavender and rosemary and basil
The Reunion
forty years on, and still I have my small spoon and small chipped cup from Trinity College, Cambridge — sacred little relics, warm in my hands like talismans from another life. last night the reunion surged through me: red wine dark and heavy, escargots glistening in garlic butter, and a rich bloody fillet of lamb.
The Copper Grill
credit crunch, banks collapse. the headline bleeds out in a grubby newspaper spread across a sticky table. the ink fused with smears of butter from oily ketchup fingers. coffee stains the edges. chunks ripped from the classifieds, page thirty-three. used cars. escort services. mugs of tea steam under the light. hand-rolled cigarettes glow between stained