Prose

I'm the best at fencing in the North East. That's not bragging either, it's just pointedly true. County level, easy. England, if I could be bothered with the travel. People don't understand the skill involved. They see the final outcome and think anyone could do it. They couldn't. A lad from Durham thought he could foil me once. He didn’t. It's all in the line, see. Get that wrong and you’re done for, and everyone sees it. You can't hide a bad line in this game. I might take up driving next. Three doors down could do with theirs repaving.

Three months. Maybe four. You stop counting the days, after a while. Her pillowcase still smells of her. I haven't washed it. That isn't strange. People keep things. But is there a rule? A decent interval before a man's allowed. Before it stops being a betrayal and starts being living. I keep waiting for someone to tell me the number. She'd laugh at me. Agonising up here in the dark. She always said I overthought the simple stuff.

They always pick the good ones for the end. Whichever was their favourite. You can tell they were loved, the way they're wrapped. Tucked in, like they're sleeping. Most folk don't want them back after. Can't bear the smell of him gone, I suppose. So I take them home. Wash them. Dry them warm. They’re the softest things I own. You sink right down into them. Pull them close. I've got a stack now. Every one a different goodbye and good boy. All that love all ready to wrap around me.

When he woke up this morning, all his thoughts were French. Not about France. Actually French. So what does he think about that? Is he OK with it, or freaking the fuck out? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t speak French. He tries to read the room. Looks at the… what? Is that a bird, or a book, or a baguette? No. Not a baguette. He tries speaking. But saying what?

I counted the flowers on Mrs Farrell's curtains instead of learning where middle C was. Thirty-seven roses. I counted them every Tuesday for two years. The boy had no ear, no interest and no intention of developing either. Lovely hands. Wasted on him entirely but his mother paid on time. I sat outside in the car because Mrs Farrell said I made him nervous. I could hear scales through the open window. They sounded beautiful. The old piano’s against the wall. I lifted the lid for the first time in years. Middle C is still where it was. Mum isn't.