Patrick was standing there by a trash can surrounded with litter that a trio of crows were inspecting when his name was called. It was mid morning–11:15 am to be precise, for the newly-fashioned arch-romantic looked at his watch immediately to record the time of the happiest moment of his life. It was the moment when Denis bounded out of his mother’s Saab and sped towards him.
Not that he would have run so blithely had he known precisely what he was about to confront. As he approached laughing, full of greetings–an arm out to give his friend a warm jab–Patrick ignored all that, extended his own arms and in a spasm of new-found impetuosity, took him in a frantic embrace and kissed an unsuspecting Denis full on the lips.
In the same fraction that the Chinese youth fought with unbidden discomfort while affecting to give delight, he was also spurred to further misgivings by the sudden flurry of glances from the strangers milling about them.
“Patrick,” he hissed, “remember where we are. I mean there’re people watching.”
But a love-starved Patrick was impervious to all but those dark, mischievous eyes and the mouth he’d been hungering for from the moment the Argos had loosed its moorings and sailed into that physical and human storm. “They’ll just think we’re brothers,” he shouted airily. “They can see it’s a family reunion!”
Gently Denis disengaged from the bear hug but holding on to the other’s warm hand in spite of his suddenly violated Chinese sense of proportion. “That’s not how my boss would see it,” he said, “Perhaps we could get into my car and we’ll drive further into the park. I’ll call him and say I’ve been caught up in the traffic.”
Coming down reluctantly from his dizzying high, Patrick signalled abruptly across the lot to a public phone booth. But Denis simply extracted a tiny cellphone from his cargos–calling the office as he drove the winding highway, patterned now by the bright shadows of the bare-branched deciduous trees that made a mosaic of the blue December sky.
… Quoted from
To Each An Albatross, by David Watmough, Ekstasis Editions, 2011
Books That Review Themselves #2
Book Reviews
Patrick was standing there by a trash can surrounded with litter that a trio of crows were inspecting when his name was called. It was mid morning–11:15 am to be precise, for the newly-fashioned arch-romantic looked at his watch immediately to record the time of the happiest moment of his life. It was the moment when Denis bounded out of his mother’s Saab and sped towards him.
Not that he would have run so blithely had he known precisely what he was about to confront. As he approached laughing, full of greetings–an arm out to give his friend a warm jab–Patrick ignored all that, extended his own arms and in a spasm of new-found impetuosity, took him in a frantic embrace and kissed an unsuspecting Denis full on the lips.
In the same fraction that the Chinese youth fought with unbidden discomfort while affecting to give delight, he was also spurred to further misgivings by the sudden flurry of glances from the strangers milling about them.
“Patrick,” he hissed, “remember where we are. I mean there’re people watching.”
But a love-starved Patrick was impervious to all but those dark, mischievous eyes and the mouth he’d been hungering for from the moment the Argos had loosed its moorings and sailed into that physical and human storm. “They’ll just think we’re brothers,” he shouted airily. “They can see it’s a family reunion!”
Gently Denis disengaged from the bear hug but holding on to the other’s warm hand in spite of his suddenly violated Chinese sense of proportion. “That’s not how my boss would see it,” he said, “Perhaps we could get into my car and we’ll drive further into the park. I’ll call him and say I’ve been caught up in the traffic.”
Coming down reluctantly from his dizzying high, Patrick signalled abruptly across the lot to a public phone booth. But Denis simply extracted a tiny cellphone from his cargos–calling the office as he drove the winding highway, patterned now by the bright shadows of the bare-branched deciduous trees that made a mosaic of the blue December sky.
… Quoted from
To Each An Albatross, by David Watmough, Ekstasis Editions, 2011