·
‘Antarctica,’ she says. The word, cool on her lips, like a brush of springtime air. It reminds her of Edgar, though she can’t think why. Did he ever go to Antarctica? She can’t imagine he ever did, but now, as she stares at the tablecloth, she can’t be sure.
·
‘He looked at the field and tried to imagine it. Not just the colour, but the smell, the movement. Real flowers would have swayed in the breeze. He knew that much.’
·
‘Yeah, well… boys will be boys,’ he says. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Just that you shouldn’t read anything into it.’
·
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.’
·
His disappearance has left me out of kilter, and unbalanced. Facing east, I stop in my tracks, as if waiting for the signal to continue, waiting for the nod. But the man I always nod to is not there…
