You’re the only one I can talk to.

She places a hand on Jack’s arm. Even now I don’t know, you know it don’t you. She laughs, then suddenly serious. Was it simply a performance? She draws back. With you, Jack, it’s different, I know. She is rummaging in her handbag. She looks up, stares blankly across the street. Did I call you Hubert?

REALITY DREAMING BY LINDSAY SMITH 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 97

He stayed in America. Edwina stares into the distance, uncrosses her legs, knocks the table, spills her coffee.

Jack reaches for a paper napkin, knocks the table, the coffee spills again.

It was hard for us at first, being apart, Edwina says. In the end we got used to it. She pushes black plastic-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose.

The distance. She sips the cold coffee. I went back. I was with him when he died. She turns to Jack. You’re the only one I can talk to.

The paper napkin flutters. The breeze snatches it and it dances across the table. (Edwina makes an offhand grab for it.) The family shut me out. For the family,…