Finn was a quiet, self-effacing guy, with a left eye continually drifting to the side as though something more interesting had caught his attention. Maybe something had.
He talked sense; we usually heard him out.
Just not that day…
“No,” he’d said, when we rocked up at the disused railway sheds, clambering onto the roof for a spliff.
“No,” was also his last word as the rotten timbers gave way.
Afterwards, his absence was more keenly sensed amongst us than his presence ever had been.
We hadn’t realised we’d always navigated by Finn; he was due north for all of us.
So England didn’t win the Euros, and that’s 3 hours of my life I’ll never get back again. I ought to know better; in fact I do, but sometimes I just forget. 😦 Someone who never forgets, come rain or shine, is our lovely benefactress and leader of the Friday Fictioneers, Rochelle. Many thanks for your time, Rochelle, I know there are other things you could be doing.