Old Story
I took a pair of teacups to the front deck and there she sat, head tilted back with a subtle smile, happy as a lizard on a heat rock. The smell of baking asphalt and sweet chlorophyl hung on a calm breeze, the warmth of late spring draping itself around us. I looked at the sun and in the glare I saw a halo. It put me in mind of blanket forts we used to make as kids, those thick, white hospital sheets draped around us with a light shining down. She was wearing one over her legs. Might have been more for the tremors than the cold. I sat the cup down next to the speculoos; thin, caramelised biscuits that are neither cookie nor shortbread properly, these ones stamped with pictures of different animals. I sat in the empty chair on the other side of the table, put a squeeze of lemon in and lifted the cup to my nose, a habit I picked up from her. Subtle hint of citrus. Not from the lemon, but from the Earl Grey’s trademark bergamot.
