It's Still Life

Beyond an Intersection Named After an English King and a Saint
Six Sentence Story: Day 3

Heads or Tails at The Three Moles Pub

We’ve stopped for lunch at The Three Moles pub near Petworth, West Sussex; it smells malty sweet, old wood soaking up fumes of dark mild ale,  (we both order rib eye steaks, medium rare, triple-cooked chips … Hildon Sparkling water for me and Pilsner Urquell for him).

Nick refreshes his throat with a long swallow of pils and says, “Heads or tails,” and I say “Tails,” … and he’s smiling, “if it comes up tails, then you must tell me something that I’ve not already guessed about you,” … “and if heads,” I ask, and he says we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” (… the penny spins, and settles tails-up).

“Oh, tails, okay … 

… it’s a Tuesday, August,” I start, “the sky’s transparent as if drawing curtains against calamity; the view is a broad-sky like you see in Norfolk, cinematic and pastoral, (at least in most people’s imagination, though not mine) and I remember thinking that everything here waits to die, or rust  and flake into a drift of iron oxide.” 

(Nick cuts off a piece of steak and hands it to Hünga; I load one of my chips with mayonnaise and continue) … 

… “The priest tries distilling Connor’s past into a handsome earthenware urn but the message of living a good life leaves the priest with a lack of words – and Connor is interred in a midnight glazed urn that makes the colour of midnight green with envy.

I spend that afternoon in the restaurant’s pantry checking expiration dates on tinned goods, sheltering from tearful well-wishers … it was a transference from one type of woman to another, the former being like a memorable sunrise … thereafter, refusing to be a Rockwell reproduction who wore black; my family reeled, his family re-wrote their vignettes, and some took on my salvation as a new crusade.”

Hünga, whose head is resting on my foot, wakes and shifts his weight when he hears Nick say, “I already guessed something like that,” and I smile, ” …even so, this has been delightful;—an hour much too short,” and Hünga tips his head and looks up at me, “I know a fun road that you’ll love – the A303…. we’ll reroute and hope to get lost – the trick is not knowing that you’re lost,” and I place my knife and fork on my empty plate, and say “Ready to kick up some gravel, Nick?”

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Written for Denise’s Six Sentence Story including the word “even”.  Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Images are copyright and not to used without permission, which I willingly give when asked, and when not for commercial use. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2024.