Page 53

Chris Smith


see her tapping her foot and nodding her head out of time to the music, and I know that I love her. I look at Wolf and then back at the

woman. I see Julie. I hide behind a mulled wine promotion and watch her pack cream cheese, bagels, and a bottle of red wine into a pink cloth bag. In the glaring lights of Sainsburys she is an angel. She pays and leaves through the automatic doors. I stare as they slide shut, unable to move. My arms are full of cans: tuna fish, beans, spaghetti bolognaise, Irish stew. I drop them and run. A can of rice pudding spins into a pile of baskets. Then I’m in the street. It’s mid-winter and dark by five. Opposite the Cornerhouse Cinema I see her pink bag escape onto a bus. The bus pulls away and disappears down the street. I chase it, as does Wolf. My shadow pulses between the roadside lights. It is cold and raining; my breath forms clouds as quickly as my face shatters through them. I’ve snapped a match and placed it on the wooden floor of my living room, one for every day since Julie left. Three hundred and sixteen broken ÉCLAT FICTION


MAY 2012

Éclat Fiction - Issue 3  

The third issue of Éclat Fiction (an online short story anthology).

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