The purple cravat was bright and smooth. Its colour shone impossibly against the rest of him. His skin was pale, his unkempt hair blond, the knitted jumper off-white and the camel wool coat dark grey. Nothing about him was colourful or stylish. Except for that purple cravat.
Slowly, it stops struggling in her hands. It grows limp and heavy in the water. She lets go and sniffles. It starts sinking as it floats towards the long reflection of the moon, clearer now the lake is still again. She stands up and wades back to the shore. She struggles to dress, her body shaking and her wet skin resisting the dry clothes. A black bird whistles its too cheerful, too early morning song nearby. Suddenly, she regrets leaving the body in the lake. She looks around for a stick to retrieve it with before it sinks too deeply into the bog.
—Jump in the front, he said in his deep throaty voice.
She loved that voice. She loved the stories it told at bedtime, about adventures in distant countries a long time ago. Sometimes its rhythm and hum left her nodding off before the end. She also loved how this voice could laugh. When he sat in his favourite arm chair with a book or the paper, he would come across an amusing passage or an absurd situation and his laugh came deep down from his throat as a kind of guttural hiccup. He absorbed the anecdotes in detail and incorporated them into his own stories. When he re-told these stories his laugh developed into a hearty infectious roar. Continue reading The Drive