Frog Light

Led by the dim glow of eggs on a post-it, I foot forward into the ink. What I outlined, by necessity, was the stage of divers moments, any of which would sink me by contrast were some oaf to flick the lights on. And somehow I'd rather sacrifice a toe or two. (For the books, I was twice stubbed, each foot, slight elation on the second.) I twisted the cold. The accompanying rush rang instantly familiar — I had not anticipated that. Second only to being there, I saw the figure hushed up against the sink, softly splashing while I washed my face in the doorway. One moment I was at I'm All Right, the next, I was beneath the water and the room was swathed in green. I prayed for a kind soul to press repeat.

Sally-Anne mislit her cigarette for the fourth time. Her face was everything strangers wanted: soft, sexy, lit. And she spoke with confidence, never doubling back. I followed her gazey features down her chest and feigned a smile. The lighter stuck somewhere in the bushes.
"Got a match?"
"Not this time," I said. Ha.
I began throwing bits of serviette at the back of her head as she nattered with a passing girlfriend. Most dropped short, but I got a couple of pleasing hits in. Whenever she turned to glare at me, I would simply start throwing them directly at her face. Best of all, I didn't even enjoy it. I used to, but then I used to enjoy hiding her marbles, too.

Next I sat backwards on my chair, peering over the brim like a child would. Each male passer-by I marked as my successor and glowered at. But I harboured not a thing; I only kept and held onto. Where weeping my gratitude was concerned, I was far from finished. Sally-Anne called my name sharply and I swung around. For once, she seemed to be looking at me for what I was. I had seen that look before — this time I encouraged it. Feeling the heat, I shifted. I was wearing the wrong T-shirt for this kind of weather, but it was the worst I could find.