SON He unwinds his adult arms from my neck, steps away with a childlike grin and wave. The woman peers over Polarised lenses, sips her glass of wine, turns to me, asks ‘What’s the matter with him?’ The summer’s day drifts into slow motion: boats float past, a Red Admiral settles on buddleia, water continues to cascade over the weir. Outside the pub, a man stumbles as he carries a tray, steadies himself, not a drop spilled. ‘I’m a professional,’ she says. ‘Special needs.’ as if to explain the directness of the question. His kiss burns my cheek like a touch of sun as I grope for an appropriate answer somewhere along the autistic spectrum.
Angi Holden
(Previously published in her debut pamphlet Spools of Thread by Mother’s Milk Books)
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