By Iona Winter
“Go on, run away!” Brian shouted.
Pointless arguing, we’ve covered it before. I can’t articulate what lies in my belly—rage so ancient it eludes me.
His love is overwhelming, unlike my sharp edges and darkness.
I go to Irish night at the pub. Whenever I hear this music my arm-hairs raise—shimmering. My fingers dance on the bar top. “Whiskey, thanks.”
Brian doesn’t come; only he has the feet to dance. We’d been drinking—he drove. I didn’t stop him.
His head will rattle; anxious like a small child fearing I’ll disappear from sight.
After this drink I’ll go home.
Why neediness often turns to smothering…? “…like a small child fearing I’ll disappear from sight.” = a great line. Nice piece. Erin go brah!
Kia ora John – thanks so much for your feedback 🙂
This one seems to be written in a kind of disjointed way, like you feel when you go to a real swinging joint and have a half-dozen too many drinks! Good story!
Kia ora Bobby – thanks so much for your feedback 🙂