‘How’s the writing going?’
‘Grand.’
‘Any more stories?’
‘A few, but nothing new.’
‘Will you show me one when it’s finished?’
You’ll be waiting.
‘Yeah, no bother.’
‘Grand job. So, any other craic?’
‘Nah.’
‘Me neither.’
‘Feckn’ cat out tho’!’
”Tis, yeah. When you can see the mountains, it’s a bad sign.’
But I love being able to see the mountains. And smell the leaves. Yeah, smell them. That damp, heady blast of air that promises rain. Cloud gathered in a posse. Bunched, hanging, full. Then they splice apart like those digger shovels that open their mouths like clams and then the rain is free, and you’re free, you’re free, you’re free…
‘Talk tcha.’
‘Yeah, cool. Later.’
I’m free, I’m free, I’m free.
TÓL
tea and a peach 