Rare and literal second chance

Hill walks up the steep, narrow path that leads into the pub’s beer garden. He stops and looks over the edge of the stone wall and down towards a row of recently built houses, their garden floodlights illuminating uniform rectangles of synthetic grass, chimeneas, and low-backed rattan sofas.

Amazing world, Hill thinks.

A woman in her fifties part-opens a bi-folding door. She stands in the opening and lights a cigarette, the garden spotlight illuminating her face, smoothed, taut, and unmoving as she inhales and exhales.

Meditative, Hill thinks.

Film this, Hill thinks.

The woman steps forward and puts the cigarette out on top of the chimenea.

FFS, Hill thinks.

The woman places her hand inside the pocket of her fluffy white dressing gown and pulls out a cigarette packet.

Rare and literal second chance, Hill thinks.

Hill takes the phone out of his pocket and holds it in landscape. The lens momentarily struggles to focus as Hill zooms in on the woman’s face as she lights the new cigarette. The yellow focus indicator settles and Hill touches the red circle at the bottom of the screen. Hill zooms closer; the woman’s eyes look tired and puffy, squinting and then widening as they look directly into camera.

Hill ducks down, loses his footing, and briefly slides face first down the path. He listens as the woman shouts at him to stand up and show himself over and over in a broad Mancunian accent. He presses his hands into the ground to stand up, pausing and then lying back down as loose pieces of gravel dig painfully into his bloody palms.

Relaxing, Hill thinks.

Lie here forever, Hill thinks.

The woman shouts something about calling the police. Hill lifts his face out of the dirt and begins to crawl up the remainder of path and towards the pub.