The head of the table
I
During a dinner-time discussion about inter-faith ministers, I consider spilling the bottle of red wine over your shirt.
‘Imagine a mountain, with many different paths leading to the top. Some of the paths are so far apart, on opposite faces of the mountain, they forget that the other exists.’
In an attempt to respond to this statement, I choke on a piece of spaghetti. I pull it from my throat –
you look at me and frown. ‘Yet all of the paths lead to the same place, the same goal.’
II
I test the blocks with my little finger. The tower sways each time we exhale from the tension of the game. I decide to go for the middle block, on the second layer to the top. You try to put me off by poking my armpit and you laugh, showing your too-small teeth. I have never liked your teeth.
After three more turns, the tower falls.
We sit in separate armchairs, me by the window and you by the bookcase. Above you is a photograph of your father, speaking. He was a healer, and in his office at the bottom of the garden he kept a monkey who cleaned his shoes and told him when it had been too long since he had spent time with his children.
Alana Tomlin recently graduated from the English with Creative Writing BA at the University of Birmingham and now works in theatre. Her writing has appeared in Nine Arches Press, Under the Radar, Sabotage Reviews and in several University publications. Twitter: @alanatomlin.