‘When we’re secure.’ The knot’s too tight.
A bright red double decker hisses, honks to a stop. The
top’s missing, full of tourists. Here is
the church, here the steeple. Look
inside. Hunter stops tugging at his tie, gives me his dog carried from the
battlefield look. ‘We’ve only been here a month, another, few, we’ll be set.’
He pulls the curtain.
‘I’m late.’
‘Me too. Don’t make dinner.’ The door doesn’t bang.
*
Hunter’s
back when the street’s quiet. He hands me a bag, flicks the light on.
‘Art & Antiques,’ cover, Paperweight, 1987, Beverly Hallam: blue and silver glass the size
of a tennis ball, plus a vase of white flowers holding down shadows of blinds
guillotined by sunlight. I drop it on the bedside.
*
‘Let me.’ Hunter takes the sheets. ‘Cheer up – look on
the table.’
It’s the wrong colour and the light goes right through
it.
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June is National Flash Fiction Month for New Zealand. This piece is for the Aotearoa Affair Blog Carnival's celebration of flash fiction: Across Borders. Thanks to Dorothee Lang and Michelle Elvy for including it.
