Trafika Europe 9/10 - UK in Europe

JoMazelis

The doorbell rang on the last Friday of the holidays at eight o’clock. She opened the door to find Lawrence on the threshold. He was tanned and seemed to have lost the last of the excess fat. He wore flip-flops, khaki shorts and a white t-shirt. ‘Hi,’ he said, hefting the rucksack from his back and onto the floor. Not wanting to look at his face, she found herself concentrating on his feet. There were grains of sand still visible between his toes. She hated him for that, for making her remember long ago summer days when she had come home from the beach, sand everywhere and the sea pulsing in her head, the waves still visible when she shut her eyes to sleep.

‘Hello,’ she said as coldly as she could, but he seemed oblivious. ‘Think I’ll have a shower,’ he said. ‘Is there anything to eat?’ She turned sharply on her heel, went to the kitchen and crashed about with pots and pans, browning meat, chopping onions, garlic, mushrooms, chillies. She heard the creak of the floorboards overhead and the rattle of the pipes as the shower was turned on. She boiled rice and poured half a bottle of Claret into the sauce. Drank the other half, then opened a second bottle. The little feet beside her seemed to wobble unsteadily. Her little ghost

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