I know him and I trust him.  Probably more than myself.

So we sit, side by side, as we did thirty years ago.  Our legs dangle over the edge of the bridge and the disused railway line runs pointlessly below, no traffic since before we existed.   We’re still eating sandwiches from silver foil.  We still roll it up in tight balls and aim for the dumped shopping trolley below.  We still miss every time.  Once it glowed, amid the debris below, but now weeds and dead grass incubate it like tentacles grasping for an energy source.  Once it held groceries, now it could hold an alien.

My shoes are very expensive.  He probably knows this but he doesn’t care and there’s no way I’m going to let him know that I do.  So I kick them half off in the void, balance them on my toes and look as carefree as I can next to a man in a cardigan that smells like an antiques shop.  Eventually I get careless and lose one into the stench below.  I try not to care.  He pretends not to know that I care.

We dust away the breadcrumbs.  He hands me the little yellow box with a big red button.  Hell of a way to celebrate a 45th – blowing up a bridge taking a rarely used footpath over a disused railway.  But as he says, no one will miss it except us.  Passing me the whiskey bottle, we move to a safe distance.

Author: jimmicampkin

Writer and photographer (and occasional other things) currently living in the North East of England. Everything is my own unless otherwise stated. So blame me.

2 thoughts on “Silverfish”

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