smudie

Like Soldiers

I had been told to put them out carefully, those tubs of coleslaw, all along the top two shelves in neat little rows like soldiers. Presentation was very important; everything had to be perfect. The tubs were not allowed to be piled more than two high on each shelf because the cool air had to be able to circulate freely around the fridge in order to keep the temperature at somewhere between one and eight degrees centigrade. This was also very important. Indeed, it seemed that most things about this job were either important or very important. Date-rotation, for instance: we had to make sure we brought the oldest stock to the front of the shelves and slid the new stuff in behind to help avoid being left at the end of the day with anything that was out-of-date. It was a real learning process, I must say. But I did seem to be picking things up quite quickly, they told me.

I put out the last couple of tubs of coleslaw then moved further down the aisle to start work on a tray of spring onions. There were already quite a few of them out from yesterday, but I would perhaps have room for about half a tray more. At first, I tried to be artistic in the way I laid them out -- presentation was very important, after all -- but a glance at my watch told me that the shop was due to open in about fifteen minutes and we still had quite a lot to do, so I ended up just throwing them all in one on top of the other.

"You alright there, are you?" someone asked, and I nodded without even looking up. I was alright. I had never been better.

*

Around the corner, while they worked on the tomatoes, two women were talking about one of our workmates. They spoke loudly, as you do when you work in a shop, and I could hear most of what they were saying.

"I heard she won't be back for at least a month yet."

"What's wrong with her exactly, do you know?"

"Apparently she's depressed, poor thing. Been having a bit of trouble with her husband, so I heard."

"But she's only been married just over a year! Of course she's going to be having trouble with her husband. What does she expect? When you get married it takes you at least ten years to get used to your man, and then you just learn to put up with him."

"I know. I think she must have read too many magazines or something."

posted by smudie @ 10:25 AM 0 comments

The Walks

Do you remember? You wanted to go and sit in the shade; the sun was too hot on your black hair, you said. I watched you all the while as you spoke. I wanted to look behind your sunglasses and see what was in your eyes, what you were thinking; so I took them off, slowly, and we both smiled, slowly. And then we stood up and we went to sit down on another bench, in the shade underneath a tree. I can remember it all so clearly.

I think that during those few days we had together, we must have sat on each and every one of those benches there by the river. How long had it been? How many days? It had been too long, yet it could never be enough. The walks we went for every morning seemed to stretch out in my mind like a chain, a beautiful golden chain that went on and on forever. I couldn't remember a before; I couldn't imagine an after. There was only you: you, sitting there with me in the shade.

*

Do you remember? Two glasses of water stood there between us on the table. Of course, I know that not everything I remember is the truth, that it has been distorted by my remembering. But at the same time, it is the truth -- my truth. I remember that you were beautiful. I remember that I was happy.

I remember what I tried to say to you, and how you cried when I said it. Certainly we both knew that it could never come true. I wanted to say it anyway; it was necessary that it be said. But there was more, much more between us than those two simple glasses of water. He was there as well. He was there when you asked me to kiss you, there by the river in the sun -- all I could see was his face! And it was then that I realised that he would always come between us, that we could never escape his presence.

As I sipped some more of my water, I slid the poem that I had written for you into your hand. I could see that you wanted to cry again, and that was more than I could bear, so I kissed you. I have never known a sadness so complete as how I felt at that moment, because I knew that really I was kissing you goodbye.

*

Do you remember?

posted by smudie @ 2:33 PM 0 comments