Quake

I saw a ghost.

Invited to a football match, I drove over to Redders' house - from where we would walk to the stadium. Indicating right, to turn up Very Steep Hill, I noticed a couple of people crossing the road – chatting, laughing, entrusting this Peugeot driver to be in not much of a hurry. Slowing down, I noticed that the one on the right was Her.

'Calm', I said to myself.

They – She - passed. I drove on.

At the house of Redders, I left the car and we headed off. At my mention of the ghost, he speculated that perhaps She would be at the football match. This, I ignored.

At the football, Redders introduced me to a colleague of his, who remarked:

'Your accent, it’s a bit like you’re from the north east… but posher.'

Amused, our attentions turned to the football, though Redders had been right. Thinking about it – about Her, she would be at the football.

I thought about sending a friendly text message, 'Hello. Spotted you earlier near Very Steep Hill. What are you making of the match?' kind of thing. But I didn’t. After all, apart from that series of calls and messages that came my way when She went through that Tough Time not so long ago, the last time we exchanged words, I was 'a cunt' - a perspective that is not so easy to raise, challenge or even maintain, when the labeller is going through a Tough Time.

For much of the rest of the day, a hint of sadness scratched at my proper day off.

How different could things have really been.