She has seen him before. The muscles on his back run like rope on pulleys as he manipulates the sienna mound. It's hard to see what he's working on through the
lace curtain and she daren't move it in case it catches his eye. The
power trips. He swears into the darkness. Her pulse quickens. She anticipates the light before it makes her
squint. He is a perfect silhouette, working the clay like
he's birthing a new species.
The Glass Heart
She arose, mid-winter, in the east
With frost clinging to her eyelashes.
Her brittle beauty enamoured,
While her glass heart rattled with
The absence of love.
The first time they went to the water's edge, her job had been to hold the stopwatch.
"This is the busiest channel in the world," her father said. "More than one hundred ships pass through here every day."
He couldn't get their last meeting out of his head. She'd sat opposite him, cupping the empty mug of chai which had scented the air with cinnamon, weeping. She'd made no sound, but the rivulets on her cheeks made his heart ache. He didn't know what to say, so he kept rambling about the unfairness of it all and how she deserved better than the hand she'd been dealt.
