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Ray was at the kitchen table, leafing through brochures. Nancy flipped through an old gardening magazine across from him, eyes elsewhere. The wind howled outside.
“How long will you keep this up?” Ray said.
“Until you see sense.”
He stood, lit a cigarette, drew the smoke in. Exhaled.
“It’s just something I have to do,” he said.
“I don’t want us to go.”
He went to the counter and picked up two mugs from the chrome rack.
“Tea?” he asked.
“No. Coffee,” she said.
She followed and waved at the brochures. “Why Kilt Rock? Why so far?”
“I want to stand at The Edge of the World again.”
She reached out, fingers brushing his wrist — a brief touch. He didn’t move away, but he didn’t hold on either.
“Ray—”
“Just once more.”
She let her hand fall to her lap. Said nothing.
He set the mugs down, spooned in coffee.
The kettle boiled, filling the kitchen with its steady hum.
They stood quietly for a moment as Ray poured the drinks.
“You remember the first time we went?” he said. “We stood there, arms out, swearing we could fly.”
She pressed her lips together. “I remember.”
“The wind in our hair, the sea so far below. You said if you ever disappeared, I’d find you there.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“It still feels like home.”
Nancy looked away, her gaze fixed on the swirling steam.
“For the last time, Ray, I want us to stay.”
He didn’t argue. He just sat back down at the kitchen table, fingers tracing the rim of his mug.
They took their mugs to the bedroom.
Ray undressed, neatly folded his clothes. Nancy noticed, then felt guilty about hers on the floor.
He sat on the edge of the bed and sipped. They didn’t speak.
On the nightstand, Ray’s pill bottle stood unopened. Nancy glanced at it.
“Have you taken them?” she asked.
He stood, lingered at the window, looking down over the shared driveway.
“The Millers have a new car,” he said.
She came to stand beside him.
“Are you going to take them?”
Ray’s shadow stretched across the room — narrower than Nancy remembered.
“Promise me you’ll learn to drive,” he said. “When I’m—”
She looked at him, her reply little more than a whisper. “I’ve booked lessons.”
He smiled. “Good.”
Ray climbed into bed.
Nancy slipped in beside him and touched his hand in the dark. Kissed his fingertips slowly, the way he liked.
He was soon asleep.
She held the strand that came away when she stroked his head.
Rolled it between her fingers — fine and weightless.
Let it fall to the floor.
She imagined walking over dunes, the wind in their hair, looking out from The Edge of the World.
A cry rose in her throat.
She pressed her lips together, swallowed it back.
Breathed in, slow and steady, until it passed.
By Glenn Liddle
Litro is an international literary magazine publishing short fiction, essays, interviews, culture writing, and new voices from around the world.
