Fast Forward

“Is this the bed on which I took your heart?”

The photograph she holds is old, the colours faded, spotted like the skin on the back of her hand. Then, with surprising dexterity, her ancient fingers flick the photograph across the table like a dealer at a poker table. It slides to a stop just next to his water glass.

“No. It was not,” she continues. “That was not the bed, because you didn’t come to me then.”

“Or then.” She fingers another photograph. This one with quaintly scalloped edges. “I like the light in this one. Hard to tell whether it was dawn or dusk. But no, not this one either.” Another curled piece of cardboard skitters across the surface of the table.

“Nor this.” Another photo. “Nor this one.” And another. “No, no, no, no.” The worn images slew over each other, to join the growing collection.

“I never promised you anything,” says the man sitting opposite.

“No. You never did.” The old woman worms her bent fingers into a pack of cigarettes and pulls one out. Withered, garishly painted lips purse and suck as she lights it.

“You’re angry.”

“Of course I’m fucking angry,” hisses the old woman.