November 2023: Paper Boats - Roxeena Bidgood
Paper Boats
He’s standing in front of the poetry section. She’s browsing the latest fiction releases.
There’s something she’s interested in. It’s been short listed for the Booker, but it’s thick, and she can’t start on something that big right now.
The shop’s crowded. It’s an independent, shelves close together, titles that don’t make the shelves in other, more popular chain stores. She usually likes it when it’s busy, but today the shop’s too small, the air a little stifling.
She moves between shelves to stand beside him. He gives a distracted smile. His eyes are clear blue, the same as their mother’s, intense and focused as he returns to the words on the page. He’s well today. She can see it in the brightness of his skin and in the way he stands.
His reading excludes her. She’s standing in front of the poetry section not quite sure if she’ll stay or go. Poetry’s not her thing. She touches the book in his hand, pushes the front cover closed to see the title. It’s a poet she’s never heard of. Modern, edgy. He flicks her hand away.
The names of poets stand out in gold lettering on distinguished hard covers. Intellectual. Keep out they say. Shakespeare, Keats, Murry, Whitman. She knows Whitman. Uncle Walt. Dead Poets and a sweaty-toothed madman. The book slides out and sits comfortably in her hands.
He’s gone when she looks up. She hasn’t felt him leave. Helpless. She’s lost him again. But he’s halfway to the door. Not gone. Still there.
‘Wait,’ she calls. ‘I’ll buy the book.’
He turns, nods, moves out onto the footpath.
The brightness of the day makes him indistinct, as if he’s fading. But he’s still there.
He throws his arm around her shoulders when she catches hold of him.
They sit at a table on the footpath, a crisp blue tablecloth, sounds of the street passing by. It’s a cool spring day, but the sun makes it drift. It might be Brisbane, or it might be some restaurant tucked away in a different city only streets from the blue Mediterranean.
They bring her wine, him water. Spanakopita, lamb souvlaki, fresh Greek salad. The wine is tinged with orange. Greek wine. Spicy, a little piquant, unusual in her mouth. There’s an addictive silence between them. She opens the Whitman book. ‘Some poetry I think’.
‘Always.’
The choice of the page is random. Words come from a different world to theirs. Beautiful words that create a picture of the ocean, the roughness of the waves, the tragedy of the ship striking the rocks, the voices of the soon-dead shouting and becoming dimmer. The last two lines so unexpected. How silly to be moved to tears by a random poem read at a restaurant table in the street. She looks up and he’s looking away from her, his eyes also filled with tears. She touches the words on the page, following the movement of them with her fingers.
Roxeena Bidgood
Right Left Write’s November prompt was Excerpt, and entrants were invited to show us their best scene, moment or teaser from a larger work - whether it exists or not.
Find out more about Right Left Write at www.queenslandwriters.org.au/rightleftwrite. The competition returns in February 2024.
Right Left Write’s November prompt was Excerpt.