We pass each other on the playing-field most mornings.
I pretend it isn’t you; you pretend it isn’t me.
For different reasons, we’d both rather forget the past. Me because of the pain, the fear, the isolation, the brink you drove me to, right here. On this playing-field.
And you? Hopefully because of the shame, the regret. Who knows?
This morning I found you huddled by the tennis courts, moaning, unable to move, speech slurring.
I did what anyone would. Kept you warm, called an ambulance.
Your eyes asked the question.
My lips silently answered.
I’m pretending it isn’t you.
I was resigned to yet another no-show – the muse having well and truly left the building. Then in the middle of the washing-up, I yanked off the rubber gloves and tried to capture the fleeting idea before rushing out to start the day. No time to refine, but at least it’s ‘a bum on the seat’ this week. 😉 Thanks to Rochelle for being more of a Friday Fictioneer stalwart than I’ve been just recently.