Joe Kavanagh

They had left in the early morning, taking the car and the remote control for the television, having, apparently, packed surreptitiously for days. Christine started the car and then beeped the horn, blew the horn, without interruption, until he came to the window, one of the last on the street to do so. Then she stared at him and waved. Waved. Gave a little polite, meaningless, one of millions, wave - crouched slightly over the steering wheel so that she could see him. Nicola sat on the passenger seat with her hands under her thighs. His wife waved, once, grimaced slightly, then reversed a little recklessly onto the road and charged loudly away. Joe had waved back, sleepy, frowning, confused. He waved back at her, decided he’d forgotten some pre-arranged trip of theirs, and went back to bed.

From The Parts (c) Keith Ridgway 2003. Not to be copied or reproduced without permission. For rights information email info@keithridgway.com