Coming ashore

In the early morning light,

I take the kayak from Manx’s front yard

and silently carry it to the lake

casting it and myself adrift.

Against the breeze

I slowly paddle

towards Tipping Point.

I’ve chosen the kayak

instead of my bike

because Manx owns it

and I’m doing this for him

and for me.

Last night, Rachel gave me Patrick’s number

and I’ve texted him

to meet me on the beach,

or else.

I smile to myself

at the implied threat

knowing I have nothing to lose;

despite Patrick’s two word response,

I’m sure he’ll be there.

The sun shines on the row of houses

along the point,

each one a mansion of pastel colours,

well-tended gardens

and insufferable neatness.

I think of my dad

setting himself up in the workshop:

a large room with one crusty window,

Peachy whining at the door,

the smell of oil and grease in the air.

I think of my mum

working overtime

to pay off repairs

to a second-hand car.

The kayak glides easily onto the sand.

I step lightly

along the bow

before dragging the kayak ashore.