Always another one
Damon stands there at the back door, and he looks at me. It’s the look he’s always had, the one which goes through me, trying to connect with some part of my soul. But missing.
‘It’s over now. We can put it behind us. And there’s always another chance. Always another one.’
He squints through the strips of sun that snipe at the window from over the top of next-door’s fence, and I watch his face. Slowly, that look drains away, until he’s more interested in the garden and the new fuchsia plants than in looking inwards, at me. And he doesn’t think of you at all.
I want to shut the curtains and stop him looking out there. Out at the world that doesn’t care, except in political manifesto and in textbooks. But I don’t. I pull up a chair next to him as he stands there, and I
