Tranny

poodle

I’d got my timings mixed up and arrived too late. All the candles had been snuffed out. The room smelt of wax. I went in anyway and sat down. I sat down in the silence that had been left. There was a little table by the window on which stood a small wooden cross, a vase of plastic flowers¬†and a large bible in Welsh. It was an odd little room. A seminar room of sorts with a projector and a large empty white wall. Behind the arc of chairs was an electric piano. On the left-hand wall were two tapestries of Celtic Crosses. The candles had been arranged on a circular table. They were tea lights. I sat and tried to empty my mind of minutia. Just for a moment. I heard singing.¬†Sallow-skinned faces smiling. Candles lit in darkness. I felt separate, awkward and self-conscious. The room was cold.

We walked on the Prom afterwards. Then the rain came. He told me he saw one of the men working on the building site. They come from Newtown every day, you know, he said. I know, I said, you tell me that every day. He’d rolled down the car window to greet him. To pass the time of day. I thought you’d got a new one, the man had said gesturing towards his car. He explained that the engine had developed a fault. Something to do with a coil. It would’ve been missing like fuck then, the builder had said. Yeh, he’d replied, grimacing. How much do ya reckon it will be then? he asked the builder. Where’d you take it? asked the builder. Anthony’s, he replied. Oh, the builder says, loads then.

Locking our door this morning I see a boy through the window standing by the other block of flats. He is staring into his phone and swaying. The light of the phone is bright in the blackness. At one point he has to hold his arm up against the wall to keep steady. I walk past him. As I go down the steps I hear him begin to knock on one of the windows. Down on the Prom there are lots of students moving in a glut towards Alexandra Hall. It is now 4.15 am. They are coatless and carry boxes of takeaway pizzas and cartons of sandwiches and baked potatoes. They chat and hug their bodies against the cold. There a group of three walking towards me. One of them is black and is wearing a short-sleeved sky blue cotton dress with a lace bodice. The figure is small in stature with but with a thick bullish neck like a boxer’s. I catch their stare momentarily. Is it a woman or man? The stare is defiant. I dare you, it says. From it’s ears hang long threads of diamante. The wind bites.

The tide must have been high. The North Prom is coated in a fine, grainy sand.

A tooing and froing day today. So be it.