He should have known better than to go marauding in August. Heat rises all manner of dark things, not least of all the flies. The fetid remains of yesterday’s efforts drawing them like a cloak, their incessant buzzing ruining an otherwise perfect opportunity.
He measured his days out in rows of pulled, purchased earth.
David studied his garden. The worst summer in decades, the driest the valley had seen. He fought a
heroic battle against weather, the passage of time. What the squirrels hadn’t dug up, destroyed or outright stolen, had withered.
I watch them from our balcony. All dressed in velvet and satin, various shades of black, red and green. The kinds of Christmas parties we used to have. Their fingers grip stems of crimson wine glasses, tongues swilling Rioja around their cheeks. Only four of them, five perhaps. Intimate.
The storm is over now: no howling wind, no growling thunder; it’s all been whittled down to one tiny solitary dreg of moisture that’s poised against the windowpane like a dagger. And Kim, she stares out into the street, but she can’t see anything except the thick black smear of night.
She held the sun beneath her skin giving her a golden glow all year round. There was a
lightness to her being which sparkled and dazzled the eyes of passersby. They would squirrel
away into their safe dark places, the corners of the world where light couldn’t reach and
chitter-chatter about how impossible the Sun Child was.