Something Like That

Could a man truly be alone if he has memories? If he was cold, could the flame from his lighter not keep him warm? If it was dark and there were no streetlights to pass under for shelter, could the spark not keep him sane? The backdrop became more familiar. As the coach pulled up he realised that this was what he was doing. His thoughts kept him busy as time and distance went by. Sometimes he smiled, sometimes he bowed his head in frustration; plenty of shaking. His legs and back were numb from stillness, how long for he didn’t know. Time to stretch, Jack. He’d seen the movie posters, ‘One man’s journey...’ his was nearly over.

He stepped off the coach and onto the promenade, jogging down the ‘Cat and Dogs’ like so often.  Looking over the wet sand stretched between the two piers, escaping into the blue. Last night’s rain sat on top of it like the start of an over-coat God hadn’t finished painting yet. It brightened it up, and it wasn’t bright. The two distant piers stretched out for each other’s grasp, desperate to keep this beauty away from divide into desolate. He held out his hand for hers. It wasn’t there.

He could still walk miles along here, discarded chewing gum and pensioners neglecting fouls the entire route. Judging gapes each way. He lent some low-life a cigarette.

‘Cheers mate’.

Runners went by, about where the finish line was. The whole town applauded him round; the greatest feeling. He was a hero that day. Now the people who watched him grow up watched him light up by the second lighthouse. A curious, underdone, pallid structure standing proudly on the bank over its superior, dusting off years of over-sight and bad weather to set tall when someone passed. It recoils when someone neglects. They always neglect; forced smiles all-round. Lighthouse one was smug as its congregation pilgrim up the pier. Don’t worry, I didn’t forget you.

Speed dial one. Click.

‘I’m home’.

He wanted to see it all; one more time. He put his iPod in and looked back, again and again. Strutting far out the way of the sports shop families and trolley pinchers. Into the solitude, the places only they knew, out of town. High-fiving the tall weeds as he went, no-one was around. He’d walked miles before he reached the field they’d cut through that day, to save his neck from peeling under the rays if nothing else. He couldn’t bear to trudge it again, that spot where they’d kissed, so beautifully, intensely. He turned to face the longer trek home, taking the menthols out his back pocket and his lighter from the adjacent. His thumb twitched more and more violently at the spark wheel. No luck. Minutes, further minutes and his thumb was hacked to s**t. He crunched the cigarette and threw his lighter into the field. F**K. Decent muscle, Jack. He staggered a few paces, burying his head in his arms; he knew this place too well. The nearest off-license being miles away, but since it was en route home he had to hike it anyway.

After a few miles he put his hood up and closed his jacket using his pocketed hands as some sort of zip. Mistakes were made, but at least he travelled light. I really fucked it up this time, didn’t I my dear... Thanks, shuffle, that’s just perfect. Why do this to myself again? He’d have beaten himself if he could have seized his hands from his pockets. Another mile or so and his feet were blistered, as if some infestation had gotten in his shoe and gone mental. Plimsolls, Jack, for walking? Really? F*****g genius. Fewer and fewer cars went by, and as the hours passed they were mere lights running by at small intervals, lonely fireflies on coke. By the time he could taste civilization he swore he could have crumbled to the floor and not got up, and this b*****d wind wasn’t helping. Were those city lights or distant cars? Or was he so messed up he was seeing big fireflies for real? Chase them, Jack, they’ll lead you home.

Once he obtained his lighter from Premier’s he stumbled the streets, they all led him home eventually. He went through the box of smokes one by one, each drag failing to give him that sweet relief it had a thousand times before. He went to pull another out and only two were left. I hope these useless things do at least take a minute off your life, that’ll be something. It might have been his lungs burning of ash or his heart breaking, but his chest weighed him down. If his legs could hold out he needed to find a place to sit, or die, whatever. No, I’m not a dog running away to the forest to die, Jesus, Jack. Welcome home for God’s sake. He turned a corner or two, looking for something familiar to give him a pick-me-up, almost there mate, calm yourself. He stopped, took his hood down and sat on a low wall in the middle of the street. He lit up, sighs. What time is it? Probably missed everyone by now, what was the point of this again?

‘Tough day?’ a soft voice in front of him.

Day? Try year, nah, how long have I lived here? Finally he looked up. She was gorgeous. She smiled; a ‘what an idiot’ grin on her lips, which were pressed against a cigarette. He watched the fumes float past her eyes, golden dancing embers fixed onto him. Flames or not, the warmth from their stare was real. He’d heard the word ‘resplendence’ before, and now he knew how to use it.

He looked down, tapping the ash onto the ground, smirking as he spoke:

‘Something like that’.