MORNING SERIAL

SHE had had her hair done so that it framed and softened her face and belled out in a thicklycut sway above her neck. She didn’t sit down so I looked up from her feet, in black and red peep-toe court shoes with a higher heel than you’d expect, to her knees – one bigger than the other I knew – just on show below a short, wheaten-white, belted wool coat.

“D’you still like what you see?” I tried not to grunt and not to think of the strawberry birthmark on the left cheek of her arse. She loosened the belt and took the coat off, folded it on a chair. Her dress was rust-orange. Linen. Just above the knee. Sleeveless. It fitted and suited. Of course.I shuffled a bit on the Babar couch, partly to ease my pain. I sighed. Not this, I thought. Yes, this, I hoped.

“How’d you know I was here?” “Chance. Or, sort of chance. I needed some work doing. I rang Tommy. Usually do. He told me you were here. What had happened. I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

“You look terrible.”

“Feel it.”

“Can I do something? Shave? Wash? Toothpaste? Coffee?”

“Can’t think of a thing I need,” I said.

“Oh?”

I employed the silent trick technique I had perfected in the days when I had once been as intent on pleasuring as on being pleasured. To avoid Rise, Decline, and inevitable Fall, I closed my eyes and Conjugated. Amo. And meant it. Amas. And once you did. Amat. He may still. Amamus. We were once anyway.

Amatis. Anyone you wanted. Amant. Our Present. From a Past. Without a Future.

And then the whole imperfect, perfect, and pluperfect knowledge.

Amabam, amabas, amabat, amabamus, amabatis, amabant.

Amavi, amavisti, amavit, amavimus, amavistis and amaverunt.

Amaveram, amaveras, amaverat, amaveramus, amaveratis, until amaverant.

I opened my eyes. She was still there. I knew she knew no Latin but, as ever, Bran was in no hurry.

> The Crossing by Dai Smith is published by Parthian in the Modern Wales series www.parthianbooks.com