THE DAY WE GOT THE NEWS
Let’s say we have that afternoon again. Itchy for autumn. Me in pale orange lipstick and you your best tweed with leather buttons, facts mouthed at us in a room with no room to move. We hold onto thin plastic see-through cups of water too weak or wilful to keep shape. Let’s say you are told ‘be strong my friend’ by the man with no first name. We are fussed over by mortified women. Let’s say we are dispatched with instructions and sit at the bus stop with boxed pills and synthetic syrup and let’s agree today could have been handled better. Let’s say we – you and me – know what to say to each other. I remember smoking. Let’s say we say ‘I love you’ in front of silent strangers. Hold hands for the first time in how long. I show the bus driver your bus pass. He blinks. He knows. Flies us past the giant Asda and manageable Sainsbury’s. Let’s say we get home to a front door needing a good paint, and a living room needing a good tidy and let’s say I put the kettle on. Gives me something to do with my mind. Let’s say you put on a Beatles album. Stand there and watch it spin and let it be. You still have your coat on. Let’s say I watch you. Let’s say my shoelace comes undone, and I leave it. Let’s say things wouldn’t be any different.
Cath Holland is a writer living in Birkenhead, covering themes of grief, class and feminism. She is published by Mslexia Magazine, Dead Ink Books, Arachne Press, National Flash Fiction Day, Fictive Dream, and Thin Skin. Cath Holland Cath Holland (@caththewriter)