peachpenumbra@googlemail.com
20/05/10
I sat under the tarpaulin, drink and fag in hand, and counted the bricks in the courtyard wall. I got to 44 before I needed to take another sip and drag, and in blowing the smoke out I effectively blocked my own view. It was warm, and the wall removed the possibility of any breeze, so the smoke hung there, drifting. It picked up the eddies and currents like dusted fingerprints, and dissipated slowly. I swivelled in my chair and turned to speak to you, but you were occupied with someone else, so I followed my grey breath’s unsure path instead.
