Barbara and the Dog
“All’s quiet on the Western front,” Barbara whispers softly, as we take in the gentle coastal breeze drifting through the car, from her side to mine. The yachts in front of us bob gently, the only noises a gentle tapping of some metal piece on a mast somewhere, a seabird calling for its mates, and the occasional hum of a motorised dingy charging through the aquamarine landscape. “Look at him,” I say, pointing to the dingy. “He’s on a rocket to somewhere.” “Yes, he sure is.” Barbara smiles wistfully. She pauses, before adding “I used to sail”. I know this. I respond, “Did you?” I enjoy this story, each iteration as it comes. “Yes, it was such fun!” Barbara says. I turn to her, and notice her eyes are closed as she sinks into the memory. Her hair, possibly a blonde in years gone by, coils in grey waves about her face, her expression knitted into the joy of the thought, soft knots of skin focussed. “My husband grew up around boats.” I say conversationally, as I have for the ...