Page 53

Chris Smith

I

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

53

MAY 2012

Éclat Fiction - Issue 3  

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

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