sweet tea

Sweet Tea by

I set off in the same direction I do every day, my loafers loafing as much as always. The light graze of them on the concrete as they flap slightly off my foot with each step is a shush and a hush carrying me along. The streets are quiet, no one tends to be awake at this time, when the terracotta buildings are still grey with shadow. The people are lizards here, need the sun to warm them before they can do much at all. I was always an early riser, even as a child. Always out of bed before the larks, that’s what mother used to say.

 

But they’re very quiet this morning.

 

From behind me, an echo grows. Footsteps approaching. A heavier person, landing their feet with a purpose I could never commit to. My heart is strained, I think I ought to shout out. To warn the scoundrel that I’m in no mood for games.

 

‘Edie,’ the scoundrel speaks.

 

I see the scoundrel is a man. I soften. He does not look much of a threat. He is so old; with a face like scrunched up love letters. Like a perfectly baked chocolate chip cookie, cracked and comforting. I like this face.

 

‘I know an Edie,’ I say.

 

‘It’s very early, Edie.’ The words, too loud in the silent street, are comforting.

 

‘I like to be up with the

 

The

 

The

 

The word flutters by, a whisper of wind taking it from me.

 

‘The larks,’ the man says. I do not know what he is talking about.

 

‘I need honey.’

 

The man smiles at me, his eyes crinkled and wet.

 

‘The shops aren’t open yet.’ He speaks slowly like I am a child.

 

I shiver as something hoots in the distance. Not a car horn, something else. Something from the air. I look up to see if it’s there, but all I find are a thousand white ants slowly crawling across the sky. Dazzling. Dizzying.

 

‘Come home, Edie.’ The man extends his wrinkled, knotted fingers towards me. I shrink back, can’t imagine touching something so old. I hold up my own hands to tell him, thank you but I do not need his help. But the words catch in my throat as I see the map of purple and blue. My frail hands, as gnarly as his.

 

‘I just wanted honey.’

 

‘Of course, my sweet. Shall we go home and wait for the larks to sing?’

 

I reach out and take hold and know for now that I am safe.

 

 

 


 

 

Martha Lane is a writer by the sea. Her work has appeared in Perhappened Mag, Northern Gravy, Free Flash Fiction, Ellipsis Zine, and Reflex Press among others. Balancing too many projects is her natural state. 

@poor_and_clean

 

 

Photo by Leeloo Thefirst

 

 

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