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Beside the Lake
I walk beside a lake. You're over there, standing on the sand quite far but close enough to see the grim look in your face.
I think how pretty is your reflection, how your dress falls, a perfect curve from your shoulders. It's an ivory white dress and your dark brown hair flows down to your shoulders too, so from here your silhouette against the water is a series of arcs, each echoing the other. Your hem folds over the edges of your tiny shoes. I remember how delicate and soft your feet are, with no calluses.
You are wearing a champagne coloured Hermès scarf round your neck, French style. I gave it to you when I came back from Paris last year and we had just started seeing each other. You let me tie it round your neck: I recall that moment, the smell of you so close: you, your perfumes and shampoos: nature and art in union; intoxicating...
Mirrored in the water, every now and again a ripple breaks your reflection, but only for so long as to remind you how serene and magnificent is your image, a medieval queen of sorrow.
I stand there, weighed down by irritation and despair. I also have an itching in my scalp, partly a psychosomatic response to our recent row about the missing train tickets which I accused you of losing, and partly because the shampoo seems to have run out. To my credit, I did not mention this in the argument, though admittedly I am not a big fan of hair washing as it seems to make my thin hair go flat and the size of my face then seems abnormally pronounced.
But we have argued too recently for a conversation. All we can do is scowl at each other.
It hasn't been a great vacation but you do dress well. I feared you'd take off the scarf during the arguments and fling it at me in a gesture of disgust: I am glad you didn't, though I don't know if this was for sartorial reasons, because of the chill in the air, or because you simply didn't realise how much this would have hurt me.
Anyway, I'm sorry: I should have taken more photos of you with the new Samsung cell phone. I'm truly sorry about that because I'm sure our friends- especially Angela and Floyd- would have liked to see them. I'm sure they would have admired each image and added appropriately witty sweet comments on Instagram.
Now, I think I will go back to the cottage and make some gin and tonics before we catch the train back. The train tickets were in my overcoat pocket all along, but I'll say they were on the mantelpiece under The Observer's Guide to Pond Life.
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Image: Across the Lake, Monotype http://www.flickr.com/photos/28509471@N05/3208933837/in/set-72157612697830853/
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Read to The Vicious Circle Writers' Group, April 12, 2021
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