Live Encounters Poetry & Writing May 2024.
Pieces of bread, story by Kate Mahony.
Pieces of Bread
I came out of the station, my feet sore from trudging the central London streets. Dusk was settling in. Across the road, the market sellers were dismantling the last of the stalls and there were few people around. The Airbnb I had left from that morning was still some distance away and I was also hungry. If Andrew were here with me he would have thought to buy provisions when we arrived. He was organised like that.
He also always knew the best places to eat. I merely followed, as always.
I saw an Italian restaurant and went in. I ordered antipasto as Andrew would have done. A platter of cherry peppers, goat cheese, roasted peppers, salami, meat cuts, ricotta, olives and more. My mouth salivated just remembering.
The glass of rosé and the antipasto arrived quickly. But this antipasto was nothing like those in Italy. This was merely torn slices of thick bread arranged around some kind of dipping sauce.
The bread was dry. Even so, I ate as much of it as I could. I drank the rest of the glass of wine. There was nothing to keep me occupied other than checking Andew’s Instagram but I knew that would be a bad idea. I no longer posted on Instagram. It had taken the most of three weeks for the black eye to go away. After that, I had lost the urge to exhibit myself to strangers.
When I had last looked, Andrew was still in Italy but further south. He was still posting photos of food and restaurants. I would sometimes study them to see if there were any traces of anyone else with him, a second glass on a table, a phone. I knew how carefully he edited his photos.
I went up to the counter to pay. On my return, I passed my table with its platter and empty wineglass still there. I paused and without even thinking about it, picked up the remaining pieces of bread to take with me. My breakfast if nothing else. Sensible, I could almost hear Andrew saying. Not wonderful, but better than nothing.
Outside, the packed up trucks were leaving. It was darker than before and what lighting there was barely lit the street. As I walked further down the road, a small slim man darted out from behind a big truck startling me.
‘Miss,’ he said, his hand out. ‘I’m hungry. Can you spare some money?’
My credit card was still in my left hand. Stupid of me. I felt my fingers tighten around the card’s hard edges.
I realised then my right hand was holding the pieces of bread. ‘Here,’ I said. I thrust them into his palm. I wasn’t sure which of us was the more surprised. Both of us stopped in the street for a moment as if frozen. He was the first to fall back. I continued walking, this time striding in an effort to portray a confident air, through the rest of the rubbish-strewn street where the market stalls had been.
Then I saw the Airbnb up ahead. I had made it there on my own. All this time, Andrew had been lingering like a bad spirit, occupying a place in my mind, giving me instructions. But now as I breathed out I felt an overwhelming sense of something lifting. I took out my phone and tapped an icon. I tapped again. The next time I tapped, his profile had disappeared. Ciao, Andrew, I said aloud.
© Kate Mahony
Kate Mahony is a long-time writer of short stories and flash fiction with an MA in Creative Writing from the International Institute of Modern Letters at Victoria University of Wellington – Te Herenga Waka. Her work has been published in anthologies and literary journals internationally and in New Zealand. Her debut novel, Secrets of the Land, was published by Cloud Ink Press in 2023. She lives in Wellington. www.katemahonyauthor.com ; https://www.instagram.com/katemahonywriter; https://www.facebook.com/KateMahonyAuthor