It is drizzling. The house is empty, the road outside quiet. It’s just as the book said it would be, normal. A Tuesday, everything in its place, my desk tidied.
I go to the window to look at the blossom. How to capture the blossom, I think, in all of its brief finery? A blackbird sings from the top of it, a song, I like to think, of praise.
I answer an email, I fiddle for a moment with a paper clip. It is still drizzling.
The book was right (how I hate to say that), there were no prolonged goodbyes. Any goodbyes at all, now I come to think of it. Just this odd, reverberating silence. And me. And me.
Usually the answer is coffee. Or a bun. But not today. I stare into the silence head-on. Nothing moves.
From what feels like the next door house, the doorbell rings.
I open the door to find a loosely dressed young person paying off a cab driver in the road.
‘Have you made coffee?’ the person says as they approach the house on the path. ‘You know I need my coffee.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘but I don’t know you at all. Who are you?’
‘I’m your new book,’ says the new book walking straight past me and up the stairs. ‘Milk, no sugar, if that’s OK. And I heard you bought buns. I’d love one, thanks. The old book says Hi by the way. It said not to bother to write.’
Marvelous scene, Anthony. And doesn’t the new book, new project, new poem, new story always arrive in just such a way?
As always, Molly
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Rather annoyingly, it does, yes.