Town is quiet these mornings. The tide is out and the light is soft and muted. I can almost hear the town breathing. Down by the harbour there is the usual hum of generators. It is a special time, a liminal time. Mine. And broken only by a man I can see walking towards me on the other side of the road and the inevitable clog of drunken students loitering on benches opposite Gwesty Cymru. One has no shirt on and is shouting, rather loudly, at his companion. I cross the road. I’d seen two others when I walked along Mill Street. The man was wielding a bottle and swigging from it in a rather exaggerated fashion. His female companion, whose substantial bottom had been squeezed into a very tight denim mini skirt, was huffing and puffing her way along, no doubt eager to be home. I crossed the road and only turned round to see what had become of them when I’d reached the end of the street. He was sitting on a wall and she was still breathing heavily. I think they then went into the block of flats there.
I sat out yesterday afternoon for half and hour after my Norwegian lesson. They always exhaust me. So much concentration. But good. They are good. And she is a warm woman. So alive. I sat there trying to read a book of essays and watched as a wasp landed on my thigh. They come so lightly. They are curious. Is it the smell of body cream? It is like a kiss. I feel no fear. Not anymore.
