We always tried to be angels, but her smile made me want to spit in the face of God. We tore along the street like lava, consuming everything in our wake. When she grabbed my hand and told me to stop, I watched her vault into the open top of a sports car and wink at me – one hand on the wheel, one arm propped on the door. As I stared, waiting for the punchline, I heard it… the steady hiss of piss as she wet herself and the leather interior before vaulting away.
Sure, we smashed a few windows, and sure, we upset a few natives. We ran to the churchyard and pulled down as many slabs as we could before mounting each other on the cold slab of a former vicar. She rode me, legs splayed wide across my hips, jeans still hanging off one ankle and dripping yellow, t-shirt knotted up and arms out to receive the sun. We came in unison and rolled off, landing with a winding thud in a pile of autumn leaves. Kissing my nose, she bit her lip and for a moment I saw true love… true companionship…lying in the hundred scents of a thousand dry brown leaves.
Lying under the stars later that evening, she points at one and says ‘Mary Linskill.’ Then another, ‘Alfred Broe’. When I ask she tells me; these are the names of the people whose tombs we upset….and the stars are their spirits in the dark.
jimmi campkin 