Cherrypicked stories

A poem that can be read three ways, see if you can work it out.

I used to ask her where she went most every night. “To see a man about a dog,” was always her reply

We always said the booze would kill him...

We have exhausted all the usual explanations. Too fast for days, hours, minutes, it is not time she measures; except in her own ageing face in the dark mirrored window.

A film shot and cut in my head

The narrator gets serious.

short and sour... like some drinks...

There is nothing of me here; only response and request; times and places; an odd draft of something long out of date. I do not keep everything I should; you are disappeared, even that photograph of us with the Tyne bridges glowing. It is old now. And gone.

If you missed the earlier episodes of The Affinity, the story starts here: http://www.abctales.com/story/ian-hobson/affinity