101 Words

The town had a life of its own, a regular heartbeat that pulsed through the earth like ripples across the surface of a pond.

In the morning, it breathed in fresh-faced miners to the sound of a sharp whistle that, in winter, pierced the darkness and echoed like a predatory howl.

In the afternoon, it breathed them out again. Coal-stained hands left smudges around tired eyes blinking rapidly against the dying light.

The whistle always seemed quieter at the end of the day; low pitched and long, as if channelling a collective yawn from those who had toiled for hours underground.

In the photograph, his great-grandson holds up the precious match-day referee’s shirt, unwashed since 1966. Even six-year-old Bakhran knows its significance.

A statue in Azerbaijan commemorates the former footballer, coach, and referee, and the Tofiq Bahramov Stadium is named in his honour.

As a linesman in the World Cup Final, he raised his flag to signify that the ball had crossed the goal-line: millions of watching England fans celebrated.

West German players claimed to have seen chalk dust, indicating that the ball had not crossed the line. Tofiq’s family, however, affirm that throughout his life, he was sure he’d been right.

Parched, desperate, Gabe crawled over the dune and spotted a town. A real town, with a water tower. He scrambled toward the vision, crawled up the saloon steps, and stumbled inside. “Water. Give me water.”

The bartender took no pity on the filthy, emaciated man. “Nothing’s free.”

Smokey plunked down a gold nugget. “Bastard!” The barkeep pocketed the nugget and filled a water pitcher. Gabe drained the pitcher and snickered.

“What’s so funny?”

“You didn’t get the good nugget. It’s worth dying for.”

Gabe searched both pockets, found only a hole. He stumbled back toward the desert never to return alive.

Newspapers, travel books, and magazines cluttered every surface of Bob’s house, prompting frequent encouragement from friends to “travel more, enjoy your life.” He invariably replied, “When I retire, I will.” And he meant it, making exhaustive lists of cities to explore and museums to visit.

His body made other plans for retirement. The macabre cells multiplied, intense nausea stymied his appetite, he lost weight, and his skin lost all color. Even after his family checked Bob into hospice, he continued to consume his newspapers, travel books, and magazines, planning to travel until the day he could no longer hear or read.

Lila stared into the eyes of her reflection for a long moment, studying the way the unnatural red of her mouth changed her into someone else. Someone who didn’t mind the sweat of strangers on her skin. Next the black brush, carefully applied to lashes until they looked like the ones on her doll, discarded only the year before. She pulled her boots on over fishnet stockings and smoothed the tight dress over barely budding breasts. Her brothers wept, hiding their tears behind their hands, as they did every night before she went out. Hers she held in. Makeup wasn’t cheap.

It had started like any other Saturday. Yoga, breakfast, out to tackle Borough Market before the lunchtime crowds.

She’d seen him before; tall, bearded, handsome—out of her league. Their fingers touched as they both reached for the last Alphonso mango in the crate. He’d said it was hers if she’d have a drink with him. She’d agreed, laughing as the grocer replenished the stock behind them while he’d paid.

Eight years ago, today.

“Happy anniversary, my darling,” he said, kissing her growing stomach and passing her the freshly sliced mango he’d bought for her each Saturday in late spring since.