postcards

a northern soul by Chris Stephenson

sat in the takeaway waiting.

it was the voice that got me! that accent whipped my head right round!

she d just walked in. bouncing, laughing on a gust of cold wind and let rip

in front of all the drunks.

i usually have dinosaurs and i was just wonderin if i could use your toilet?”

no one had a clue what she was on about.

one of the blokes came out of the back to hand someone their food.

he knows me! u know what i mean don’t u !?”

he nodded. laughed.

she disappeared

                                     and bounced back out a few moments later

chips and toothpicks please… next time ill bring dinosaurs! right!?”

she sounded so much like you.

not the dinosaur nonsense, but that same magic, unconcerned with herself,

with what the rest of the world might think madness.

all blonde pigtails, loose pink belt and jeans, blue t shirt leaning over the counter

i would have married her on the spot, in a second.

except i saw her face. it wasn’t yours! her voice wasn’t really yours and you re

still just a glorious idea. more flesh than bones.

she left with her friends. skipping thru the door, back out onto the wind.

my pizza came. i walked home.

glad.

your face was smiling again, in that place it hasn’t been for ages

and i was thinking that perhaps there s a reason? if there s method in it?

remembering just how fucking good it could have been between us and

wondering if your numbers still the same would i have the balls to

pluck up the courage to call you again?