Two short stories.

Bridges made of string and prayers.

And then it’s just me and him sat there in that room, with only the smell of cigarettes and a loud silence for comfort. Shit. What are we going to do, what are we going to do, what are we going to do. Is he going to say something or what? Should I say something? Perhaps, but you can’t tell with him you see – his face hasn’t betrayed any sign of emotion for years now. What’s going on underneath the white beard, the old glasses, the cataracts, and the tatty shirt? It must be something. Something. But perhaps not, perhaps it’s all mushed into nonsense over the years, and that vacant stare really is vacant. His gaze does feel distinctly tinged with sadness. But wait, his old, cracked lips are parting, with heartbreaking effort.

“…”

Nope, nothing, just a stale breath… I think there was something, though. I realise that I desperately hope there is, and that he manages to throw his bridge across the chasm that’s cut into us, gradually. He’s trying again. It’s a bridge made only of ropes and prayers, but if we’re to reach each other we have to walk it.

“…Listen.”

And I get up and walk over slowly, eyes wet. Deep breath. Kneel by his chair, and wait. Listen.

Stale Bread.

The first arrows of sober dawn sink into the bedroom, and Melissa is talking about God again. I’m not listening though, not while the white rind of last night’s sin is still caked on her nostril. What a laughable prophet she makes. Who is she even talking to? Tom and Anna are asleep, arms lazily draped over each other like drunken comrades in some domestic war. Roxanne and I are arranged into the shape of a cuddle, but any effort put into this endeavour has long since ceased, now we both float around idly in the no-mans-land between sleep and waking; Mel’s evangelical slogans are thudding dully against my skin. After a while Mel trails off with “I just think, you know, that life, like, has to have a point, and what point is there if there’s no God?” It’s a weak ending even by her standards. Slowly, she turns her head round so that our eyes lock in an unfocussed kind of way, and after a while I let my gaze wonder to the rest of her – her eager blue eyes, blocked by a few stray strands of sandy-blonde hair, and her small and delicate hands in particular. “What do you think, Matt? Matt… Matt.” At first the name just reverberates around the empty corridors of my mind without registering, but then I am jolted from my drug-assisted reverie. “Mmm, what? Sorry.” My voice sounds growly, I probably haven’t drank enough. I go and get a cup of water, and as I come back in she does this little feminine sigh and says “What are your views, on the whole god thing? Did you listen to what I was saying?” I look at her through dilated pupils, and I tell her it’s all bollocks and she should learn to fucking think. She starts crying.

No, of course I don’t, what do you think I am? A monster? Honest? Instead, I let Roxanne gently down onto my bed, clamber over to Mel and idly play with her hair, saying “I’m not sure, you know… I think everybody finds their own way.” She buys it, of course, and practically purrs with appreciation. I’ll bet she thinks I’m deep and sensitive now. I look around the room and listen to her tuneless babbling, and think to myself, this is all just fucking cold tea and stale bread.

Few years later, I realised I was an arsehole. And the only stale bread was mine.