Stephen Phelps
Sand and blood. Sand behind the knees, between the legs where thigh touches thigh meets groin. Sand in the mouth. Tiny, tooth-breaking rocks, grit and grind. Sand – one grain only – in my eye, where Felicity flung it, and I’d rather go blind than see you walk away from me – the pain of a grain of sand in the eye, and I’d rather go blind. A funny form of Felicity.
‘Not my fault,’ I told her. ‘You overcame me. In spite of yourself. In spite of myself.’
‘We could have gone somewhere,’ she said. ‘I would’ve. I have a bed. They make furniture for these things.’
‘Not my fault,’ I said. ‘I was overcome. I’m not ashamed.’ An early lesson: Never be ashamed. Shame those who would shame you. I spat out the grains of sand.
I blinked and blinked but the one grain of sand lodged deep in my eye, and she said, ‘Take me home. I want to go home.’