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Perfect Day by A F Packer
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The seagulls are delirious, riding the freezing air above the grey sea as though it were May instead of December, as though this were a celebration instead of a Wednesday. I try to watch their aerobatics, but salt-spray blurs the lenses of my specs then blinds me when I remove them, so I head for the café. No communion with chilly Mother Nature today. Not sure I can forgive her for this ageing business, anyway. “Hey there!” The barista smiles. “The usual?” Double espresso, croissant, a bit of banal banter and one of the small tables in the window – the usual, as usual. The staff here must be sick of the sight of me. I sit down with my back to the busy counter and reach inside my coat pocket for my notebook and pen. But I can’t be bothered. Or maybe I just can’t, any longer. New melodies and harmonies are increasingly beyond my creaky grasp. I’m fifty seven today. I’m well on my way to oblivion and wondering if any of the music I’ve ever made will survive my exit. And I don’t know if I care. That’s the worst part, this ambivalence. The notebook remains in my pocket and I stare out along the seafront. There’s a woman out there watching my seagulls. I like her shape against the dull horizon. I like the way her long hair whips about, unchecked, and I’m peculiarly grateful when she turns and heads towards my café. I like her voice, as it orders a coffee behind me, and I’m pathetically pleased when she comes to sit only a couple of tables away, facing me, looking out along the front in the opposite direction. We glance at each other. We don’t smile – not quite – but there’s an unspoken acknowledgement. I like her face and I think she likes mine, despite its decrepitude. She reads and she writes and I watch her constantly, happily. She pretends not to notice. About an hour later – and much too soon – she stands up to leave. When she passes my table, she hands me a note written on a napkin. “Hallo,” I say. “Hallo.” A smile at last. Worth waiting for. “Goodbye.” I open her note as she opens the door. My hands are shaking. She tells me about a song I wrote thirty years ago, about the intense and intimate happiness she associates with its words and music, with its writer and singer – with me. She hopes I’ll forgive the intrusion but she couldn’t miss the chance to say thank you. I love her departure, the way she disappears along the railings beside the sea without looking back, my seagulls spiralling exultantly in her wake. I love the way she leaves me, fifty seven years and counting, sitting alone and smiling out at the waves like an idiot. I love this life. |
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First Place: Everybody’s Tuppence Worth Third Place: A Couple of Plastic Clothes Pegs |
