I looked at him, his eyes brave and stony, stared back. ‘This is not the right side of the river’, he said, his words tumbling forward and rolling about on his bare chest. He took out his tape measure and began to beat away the catfish as they swarmed. Catfish hate to be measured as a sign of their vanity, but he was a tasty treat and they began to eat away at his elbows and knees regardless. Soon he was gone altogether.
Days later I was clearing the dust for his funeral at the gallery. He always liked to surround himself with fine art and a favourite of his was the lady Venus, carved in marble. He fell in love with her and for a time would not leave her side. I brought him sandwiches and biscuits every day, but could not persuade him to let go. I wish he had felt the same way about me, even if only for a moment.
As I began spacing the chairs for an angular reception, I placed a small model of his Venus on his coffin. In the end, all we could find of him was a few sprinklings of soggy breadcrumbs. My gingerbread mans coffin was empty, like my heart.
RJ
I had forgotten to look at this – just found it again now. Love it!