He stares out to sea, wraps his arms around himself, it’s all so simple.
He pulls out the Will, flaps it against the palm of his hand. The red ribbon unravels and flutters away. He grabs for it. The ribbon coils lazily in the air, falls to the water, tangles on a dead fish floating belly up.
PARTING TOUCHES BY LINDSAY SMITH 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 90
This long-haired red-haired woman stalks back and forth shouting at her phone, stabbing the air with her free hand. You know what? You cheated me!! I don’t respect you. I can never trust you. She throws herself on the bus stop bench next to Harry and starts texting.
Harry immaculate in a black suit, black tie, white gloves, Venezuela-style six-star general’s cap, opens a frosted-glass door.
The boss doesn’t even look up. He’s scheduling the limo fleet, thick goggles reflecting the computer glare. Hey! You got the Mayor today.
Harry grabs the keys off a board.
Mayor wants you to wait, they got this event at the shopping mall, the boss says.
Can I keep the limo overnight? The boss grunts.
Harry takes the silver stretch limo through the City, picks up the Mayor and some PR floosey, pulls into a shopping mall car park. Mayor and twittering woman climb out, we won’t be long.
Harry reaches inside his jacket and pulls out THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT, tied with a red ribbon. He flaps it against the palm of his hand.
The Repo Man stands in a pond of golf balls slicing into an umbrella, talking into a clip on his ear. Harry skipped with the limo? You have to be kidding me. Harry took the limo? I’m at golf. Why today?
His black Jeep pulls up at a block of apartments. He peers through the windscreen, stalks along a balcony checking door numbers. At 699 he is about to knock when he notices the door’s ajar, pushes it open, Harry? His voice echoes against stark white walls.
The Repo Man goes down a narrow corridor into the living and kitchen, checks the Jeep from a window.
The toilet flushes. Cynthia comes out pulling up her pants. Oops, the open’s closed.
The open?
A thousand dollars a month.
Where’s Harry?
The previous tenant?
This little girl squashes her nose against the limo windscreen. She looks at Harry. He’s snoozing, hands outstretched still grabbing the wheel. He opens his eyes, burning. The girl recoils. She falls off the limo (her bare feet crunch hard on the gravel), runs across to the playground kids, waving her arms and yelling: ZOMBEEEEE!!!
Harry walks out on the jetty, the six-star general’s cap askew, collar unbuttoned, tie hanging loose.
That long-haired red-haired woman dangles her long legs over the end of the jetty, and a long-haired red setter squats next to her, nose held high, sniffing the ozone.
Harry stares out to sea, wraps his arms around himself, it’s all so simple. The red-haired woman snaps you say that!! It’s a cheating lie!!
Startled, Harry glances across at her. She is talking (well, screaming of course) on the phone. I don’t believe a word, not a word!! It’s all just lies!! Get straight with me!! You cheated me. I don’t respect you.
Harry walks back along the jetty. He asks a fisherman any luck? The fisherman prickles, yeah caught a few.
Harry looks at the fisherman’s empty bucket. The fisherman sees him looking, threw them back, he says. Threw them all back. He folds his deckchair, gathers his tackle and bucket, and clatters towards the shore, stops and turns back to Harry, yells out: you think I didn’t catch nothing?
Harry leans on the jetty rail. He pulls out the WILL, flaps it against the palm of his hand. The red ribbon unravels and flutters away. Harry grabs for it. The ribbon coils lazily in the air, falls to the water, tangles on a dead fish floating belly up.
The gulf sea is a mirror, the bloated sun kissing the horizon, the black hulk of a container ship plowing across it, obliterating it.