The first time you cheated on me, you cried over the phone.
“We have to talk,” you said.
We walked in bruised silence through the park, then sat and stared over the hill.
“I don’t understand,” I said at last.
“Let me explain,” you told me. “We’re not a couple.”
David still doesn’t get it completely.
“I dare you.” Three words and you could make me do anything.
“I’m not afraid.”
Inside, shouting, our voices echo. Brothers, best pals in the world.
A noise spooks us; running home.
We stop and you laugh.
You’ve lost that cap you always wore. I’m not going back for it.
Fraser never did get his hat back, but it looked stupid anyway. Sometimes David wishes they were still best pals in all the world.
Last night, Dad came round to introduce us to his latest bride to be. “There’s life in the old dog yet,” he said.
She said nothing.
This must be his third engagement since Mum died, or his fourth including Carol.
“Who’s counting, anyway?” he asked with a grin.
David is remarkably immature about these things. He finds that writing about it does help a bit.
Granma’s room; always dark. Silence, stillness, nothing touched.
Nine years old, the oldest, not the favourite.
Is Granma alright? Maybe tea?
Two cups of bitter, peaty liquid; no milk, no sugar.
The leaves drift into symbols.
“What do you see?”
The word stains like nicotine.
David Rae currently works with numbers, but prefers working with words.