3 Hot sake, green tea in The Tao, Bow Lane. Chopstick contests. I handle my salmon skin maki pretty well but you shake your head, tweeze a sole flying fish egg that squints free of your lacquered sticks and down your blouse. At the base of The Monument, CCTV lenses unblinking, I find the faint spoor of that egg and track it with my tongue. 4 You’ve a novel under your belt— no slur intended—but back then you were still on short stories. Hours in Barnes and Noble choosing the best anthology, rewarding ourselves with pitcher after pitcher of margaritas. “No sign of it.” they said the next day. Was it my disdain for prose, or the thought of your fiancé put you on the plane with no replacement? 5 Your midnight message brings me here, leaning into the gales, worrying that jet lagged, afraid of terrorists, you’ve forgotten the clocks went back. The heavy doors of the Royal Festival Hall blow open and quiver on the crests of gusts from the sepia river. An air lock forms in which the second call comes. “Can’t get away … feel as bad as you … surprise party … husband.” Nothing for it, buy some Berryman, find a bar, pass out.
Long Haul is from Simon Barraclough’s first collection, Los Alamos Mon Amour, which will be out in March 2008 by Salt Publishing (www.saltpublishing.com). His work will also be featured in a pamphlet called Ask For It By Name, which will be out in September 2007.