Fish & Chips
Steve stabs a chip with a plastic fork and leaves it there. He only ever eats the fish, she, only ever the chips.
‘We’re perfectly matched,’ he said once. She should have left then.
But there they sit, side by side in the bandstand, listening to the rain pattering on the iron roof, and watching the sea rushing the shingle.
She feels the press of his leg against hers, feels his head fall on her shoulder, hears him sigh. A contented little sound which is not unpleasant.
He could sit here forever and be happy. He’s said that too. More than once.
‘Do you know what? I’m happy, so I am. Really, I am.’
But if she could, she would tumble into the sea and swim towards that space where the water meets the sky, floating wherever the current swept her. Away, away, away…
And there, where the earth begins to curve, and just before she dips below the horizon , she would turn and call out to him across the ocean.
‘So am I, so am I.’
‘We’re perfectly matched,’ he said once. She should have left then. Click To Tweet
