For a mo­ment we stand with threaded hands, not know­ing, not sure.

Hello Mr. Magazine - - ACCIDENTS -

“Do you want some break­fast?” Luc says when I’ve man­aged the steep de­scent of the stairs. “Just a cof­fee.” “Oh, we don’t have any cof­fee,” he says, “I don’t drink it. Nei­ther does David.”

“That’s okay,” I say, though I feel a bit hurt by the ref­er­ence to his ab­sent lover.

I sit down on the arm of a couch. Out­side, a cou­ple of cold spar­rows for­age for scraps on the bal­cony, chas­ing one another out of view. Luc re­turns to the loft to strip the bed. As he pulls the sheets free I re­mem­ber the night be­fore – how he’d fallen back, ex­hausted; how he took the stain of me to bed with him, like some cher­ished thing, while I lay awake, feel­ing the ruin of the sheets, the bed, the world, till sleep took me. “Are you okay?” he asks. “Fine.” “Lis­ten I’m sorry to kick you out like this, but I re­ally have to get to the train sta­tion this morn­ing. I’m go­ing home for Christ­mas.” “Oh, okay. That’s fine.” We walk down to the street to­gether. “Look. About last night...” I say. Poised to leave, I have al­ready crossed the lip of the stairs. Luc is clutch­ing his hel­met, a bag of gifts un­der his arm.

“It’s okay,” he says. “Some­times there are ac­ci­dents.” “Yes,” I say. I watch him cross the road to his mo­tor­cy­cle. Even with grazed paint­work, it still looks shiny and ex­cit­ing.

Matthew Lowe is a writer from Bris­bane, Aus­tralia. When he is not get­ting lost in a book, lost books are get­ting out of him.

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