Ethan

He was shouting across the road to him. I heard it before I’d left the Castle grounds. Ethan, he was shouting. Eh, Ethan any problems, mate call me. Eh, Ethan. Ethan, a tall, scrawny lad with a baseball cap on his head and ill-fitting jeans, was just crossing from the town clock to begin walking down Great Darkgate Street. I’m OK, mate, he replied. Eh, Ethan, his friend kept calling, any time, any time. Such a display of amiability. Was it booze talking or¬†something deeper? I’d like to think so. It was sweet. That endless repetition of affiliation. ¬†

I knew it was coming but it threw me. And she didn’t want to get involved. And yet, when she does it comes with a warning. It feels heavy, uncomfortable – too complicated for a simple mind like mine. Will he need more? Probably. Just breathe and take one step after another.

A clear morning. No idea what to wear. I had to wear thick woollen socks for my walk and yet I long to pretend it is warm and wear sandals. We lay on the grass in front of the cricket field yesterday and he got all nostalgic. It is all there before us, his past. He was, is happy here. And that is good.

Another dead seagull. The white of them up close is startling. Such power.