Late Night Routines

The next ferry day they went back to the cottage in the afternoon.  It was a week later that I first did my evening round when they were in the alcove.  I could hear their conversation as I walked over their heads.  Alternate monologues.  First I heard him telling a story about a friend who had made a bet about the words of a song, about the conviction in his voice, about the joy when he was proved right.  Then a pause.  Then her telling a story about once going to her father’s shed at the bottom of the garden but standing on a bee when she was five, about not crying, about just waiting for her father to rescue her as she stood with the pain in her foot, her leg, about her waiting for her father thinking she was dying.  They didn’t notice me walking along the harbour wall.

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