riverrun

They sat together at the river’s edge. It was very quiet apart from the sound of the rushing water, and the sun was bright in slivers through the dense foliage. Side-by-side their shoulders touched like old friends, and he leaned his weight onto her, a minute gesture that would precede something greater; their shoes were off and their socks balled inside them, and they dangled their milk white feet into the icy clear water that filled the gill, and ran their toes through gravel that made plumes of mud like mushroom clouds beneath the pristine surface, washed quickly away by the certainty of the running river. He fingered a half of scotch egg, idly picked a few chunks of the soft yolk out like a scab under the one thumbnail he kept long out of what had then become habit then cleaned his thumbnail on the grass, dislodged the remnants with a thin length of stick gripped like surgical equipment between the fingers of his other hand; he took the white and ate half of it and threw the rest into the river and she found the act repulsive and told him as much. The picnic was hardly touched, the food all topped with a thin crust of time like hardening rock. He lowered his feet onto the stones and carefully picked his way to the centre of the river that came only part of the way up his calves as the summer had been dry, crouched and picked up the half-eaten egg white which he carried back to the bank and rinsed off in the water; he stood before her and cast her in shadow and slowly consumed the food in a manner she found to be pointlessly confrontational. She refused to look at his face but could hear the sounds of the chewing which was somehow worse than seeing it, and looked only at his midriff that rested at eye level, at the stray open button of his shirt and the curled dark hairs on his stomach beneath that were so depressing against the awful pallor of his skin.

The end of their relationship was given form in every interaction they made, every thought of the future – even the future only seconds away – screamed it’s over like an incredible relief.

He sat back down next to her and they started to stuff the untouched food into the bags they had carried them in. Her finger sank into hummus as she groped for the lid and she felt her eyes filling with tears as it did so; she felt very happy to be moving on. She rinsed that finger and the others in the river and held her sandals in one hand and the wasted food in the other and crossed the river cautiously, ensuring her footing was secure before every step. The stones could be very slippery with fine hair-like algae. Her skirt was tied up around her waist and some stray pubic hair poked from the edges of her underwear; he didn’t notice and she didn’t care. She climbed onto the bank on the other side and slipped her feet back into her sandals and untied the knot in her skirt and let it fall back over her legs, and the cool drying water on her soles and between her toes felt delicious in the sunshine. He took a last look at the tender grass as soft as bedding and felt at the contents of his pockets and crossed the river also, soon slipping on a large and perfectly flat stone and falling heavily into the water; he fell again when trying to stand, and her arms were folded on the bank looking down at him, and though she didn’t laugh she was smiling, and he shouted dumbly and splashed his way to the bank where she only then help him up. They walked the footpath in silence, his feet slurping at the heels of his trainers.

He drove her the twelve or so miles to the train station through empty lanes and byways and the journey was brisk and there was almost half an hour before her train – one of only a handful of daily services that ran through the station – was scheduled to depart. He parked the car some small distance from the station in a layby beneath some huge oaks. The air was incredibly still and he could feel sweat pooling at the base of his back beneath his already soaked garments. He reached into the back seat and opened up a bottle of white wine drenched in thick condensation, took a long drink and passed it to her. She sipped only tentatively but took his hand. They kissed firmly and she led him climbing over the handbrake into the back seat, where she straddled him awkwardly but they managed to do it regardless, their limbs bruised by luggage and the structure of the vehicle. Both breathless and desperately hot their cheeks were flushed like flagrant alcoholics, their thighs soaked with the sweat of the other. It had been the best thing to do, the final conversation, so much the end that it became the beginning. She walked back to the station and he sat for a moment before driving away. It was a good day.