Meteor Shower

He stopped me as I walked past. I’d seen him ahead of me. The Prom, except for this man, was empty. A whole stretch of emptiness. I was wary. He was standing in front of a row of B&Bs as if he’d just come out of one of them. What made him stand out was the fact that he was only wearing shorts, socks and no shoes, and it was what, only 5 or 6 degrees out there. He called out to me, and pointed at the sky and then moving closer showed me his phone. The screen revealed a online article about the meteor shower due that morning. I remembered hearing about it. He pointed up at the sky ahead. He was clearly have trouble articulating what he wanted to say. Was he pissed? His accent was North Walian, though he spoke to me in English. The photographers are all down there, he said, pointing towards the harbour. It’s at five past three, he said, again pointing at the sky. Thank you for letting me know, I said, and walked on. Keep looking, he shouted after me. And I did. And kept looking. Nothing.

I don’t know what a meteor shower looks like. And as I made my way home I could see that clouds had begun to form across the semi-moon. Did I miss it? I had kept looking up, feeling a little silly like some ever-hopeful Chicken Licking.

I need a seminar, my love. Can we go and sit and I can talk it through? So many things swirling, it would be good to ground some of it. Glimmers of hopefulness come through. I think it is the sun. Off to add a codicil to my Will soon. A change of name, that’s all. I want it all neat and tidy, ready, taken care of. I think about it often, the leaving, and how to do it neatly. It’s all I can do really. Wrap it. Order it. Taking care.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.