It snowed today. We walked to Tesco by way of an Airsoft/fishing shop. The fishing lures and rods reminded me of my father.
Neither of us spoke as we trudged through the snow.
In the shop I tried not to stare at the replica guns that fired BB pellets, looking at you instead as you spoke to the shop assistant about war and the hunt, imagining that I saw you as he did.
We weren’t supposed to be there. We sat side-by-side and held our breaths as the choir, feet away, launched into that song that is kept for Easter and Christmas. The pew was hard, the church was cold and I had run out of chocolate buttons.
I studied your profile. It gave back nothing but edges. I sat empty-handed.
“This is my moment of the day,” you said, and turning to me, smiled.
We sat playing cards on the eve of your birthday, trying to use up the time until midnight. We had tried to book flights to a surprise destination, thinking that, last minute, they’d be cheap. We were very wrong.
The failure of our enterprise didn’t sour our spirits.
It felt like we were waiting for a miracle, and when, at ten to twelve, it began to snow, we squealed like children or animals.
Jessica Maybury is a graduate of the MA in Writing from NUI, Galway, Ireland. Her work has appeared in Nth Position, Word Riot and Prick of the Spindle. She reviews books for DecomP magazine, and blogs at jmaybury.blogspot.com.
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