I wish I could cave his head in; that selfish, stumbling, oxygen thief. Unworthy to live and too insignificant to die. I wish he would simply disappear, dragged into machinery and diced so finely even the fish in the harbour wouldn’t need to chew. Looking down, I can see her scuffed and battered Converse swinging this way and that over a dappled ocean, gently bending and sweeping beneath us.
On this ruined pier, all slimy wood and tough barnacles, permanence is derided. Not far from here the only remains of a shipwreck is the anchor, rescued from the swelling tide and now bolted down lest anyone try to steal a memento of a mass grave. An anchor, bolted down, and used as a de-facto gravestone. Psychologically, it doesn’t pay to think too hard about this place.
She’d been throwing pieces of debris into the ocean below, gently picking and scratching at the surfaces around us. I imagined a future with us both sitting on flimsy platforms supported by rotten toothpicks over a deep blue sea. Her fingernails were brown from dead wood and mulch, as seaweed and faded iron clung on pointlessly below us.
I asked her, plaintively, “When will you stop being cold? When will you wrap a blanket around your shoulders and invite me to rub them with my hands? I’d do anything….anything…..for the opportunity to comfort you.”
She sighed, with the patience of a teacher in front of an idiot.
“We build these walls” she said, “but we deliberately include hard to spot weaknesses.” She looked straight at me. “…so that one day, the right eyes and the skilful heart can tear them down.”
And I knew from that final moment of eye contact that I possessed neither.