Gone Read Online Free Page B
Book: Gone Read Online Free
Author: Martin Roper
forgetting, forgetting and going on. But there is no other choice. The only option is to live a fiercely joyous life knowing full well that misery leans against every street corner.
Ursula
It must be easy for fiction writersâto make it all up. To shape reality and make it conform to some vision of the way it should be. Truth is not easy. I thought it was, that facts made it so. How could Ursula, she who was so vital, be gone? After Ruthâs death, I thought life would be easier, that death hardens one against pain. The endless well of naïveté. There is no chronology. I cannot weave them together.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
We go for a walk up the hill of Howth. Ursula is coquettish, looking for my hand on the steep rises. Itâs not like her and I like her more for it. We sit on a boulder and look out to sea. Gulls are squawking over a mass of brown in the blue sea.
âEnough to put you off your lunch.
All I can think of is kissing you. You turn and stare at me, a serious face.
âKiss me.
I kiss her and her lips are lovely. She kisses back. We kiss and kiss and I burp in the middle of it Iâm so nervous.
âPig.
âIt was an accident.
She pushes me on my back. We kiss and find each other. Her buttocks tight against her jeans. I run my hand down her leg. Her leg is hard as rock. Sweet, sweet touches. She raises herself off me and smiles intriguingly. She sits back and pulls her trouser leg up to the knee and knocks on the leg. She nods at my astonishment.
âWhere does it start?
She karate chops above the knee.
âAnd the other one?
âThat too. No, the other one is fine.
She shows a white ankle for proof.
âI never guessed.
She shrugs.
âNo one knows. Except my family.
âWhat happened?
âCancer. Letâs eat. Itâs no big deal. At least not to me.
I open the basket we have brought and I think about telling her about Ruth, about the cancer but decide against it.
âMe neither. Leg? Of chicken.
âWeak.
I knew then I would ask her to marry me.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
At work I find the slow constant hiss of the gun comforting. Ursula is getting ready for her job, back at the flat. Wife: how wonderful to have a wife. I imagine her dressing, smile at the pleasure of knowing her routine. I marvel at the work. The paint fanning over the black plastic frame turning it metallic silver. I swivel the jig to paint the next side, arcing the gun to cover the curved edge of the television frame. Love this job. It takes a special kind of concentration to paint television escutcheons five hundred times a day. Set the record last month with 578 in a single shift. Over six hundred if they included defects. Thinking of the defects, my skill wanes. The siren goes and Gerry and I drop the guns with relief.
The other workers scuttle across the factory floor to be first to the vending machines. We make our way to the toilets. We peel off the cotton gloves, the hoods, the face masks, and wash. The paint spray finds its way through to the skin, regardless. I blow my nose and decide not to think about the paintâitâs approved by the minister for health himself. Gerry spits into the urinal.
âWant anything?
I shake my head.
âWhat are you smiling at?
âNothing.
âGo on.
âUrsula is my wife.
âYouâre smiling at that? Sap. If that fucker Canning doesnât lay off me Iâll knife him.
âRelax. Youâll be a manager too one day and then you can be a bollocks.
I sit in the cubicle and stare at the chipboard door. The same coarse talk out of them every day. Did he drop the hand? Iâd fucking kill him if he said that to me. Shut up you. Prick. Got to get out of this poxy place. Iâm about to swear when I stop myself. She warned me about my language. She has a habit of entering my thoughts when Iâm on the edge of anger. The morning after the honeymoon. Lying in bed in the hotel. We were
Ursula
It must be easy for fiction writersâto make it all up. To shape reality and make it conform to some vision of the way it should be. Truth is not easy. I thought it was, that facts made it so. How could Ursula, she who was so vital, be gone? After Ruthâs death, I thought life would be easier, that death hardens one against pain. The endless well of naïveté. There is no chronology. I cannot weave them together.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
We go for a walk up the hill of Howth. Ursula is coquettish, looking for my hand on the steep rises. Itâs not like her and I like her more for it. We sit on a boulder and look out to sea. Gulls are squawking over a mass of brown in the blue sea.
âEnough to put you off your lunch.
All I can think of is kissing you. You turn and stare at me, a serious face.
âKiss me.
I kiss her and her lips are lovely. She kisses back. We kiss and kiss and I burp in the middle of it Iâm so nervous.
âPig.
âIt was an accident.
She pushes me on my back. We kiss and find each other. Her buttocks tight against her jeans. I run my hand down her leg. Her leg is hard as rock. Sweet, sweet touches. She raises herself off me and smiles intriguingly. She sits back and pulls her trouser leg up to the knee and knocks on the leg. She nods at my astonishment.
âWhere does it start?
She karate chops above the knee.
âAnd the other one?
âThat too. No, the other one is fine.
She shows a white ankle for proof.
âI never guessed.
She shrugs.
âNo one knows. Except my family.
âWhat happened?
âCancer. Letâs eat. Itâs no big deal. At least not to me.
I open the basket we have brought and I think about telling her about Ruth, about the cancer but decide against it.
âMe neither. Leg? Of chicken.
âWeak.
I knew then I would ask her to marry me.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
At work I find the slow constant hiss of the gun comforting. Ursula is getting ready for her job, back at the flat. Wife: how wonderful to have a wife. I imagine her dressing, smile at the pleasure of knowing her routine. I marvel at the work. The paint fanning over the black plastic frame turning it metallic silver. I swivel the jig to paint the next side, arcing the gun to cover the curved edge of the television frame. Love this job. It takes a special kind of concentration to paint television escutcheons five hundred times a day. Set the record last month with 578 in a single shift. Over six hundred if they included defects. Thinking of the defects, my skill wanes. The siren goes and Gerry and I drop the guns with relief.
The other workers scuttle across the factory floor to be first to the vending machines. We make our way to the toilets. We peel off the cotton gloves, the hoods, the face masks, and wash. The paint spray finds its way through to the skin, regardless. I blow my nose and decide not to think about the paintâitâs approved by the minister for health himself. Gerry spits into the urinal.
âWant anything?
I shake my head.
âWhat are you smiling at?
âNothing.
âGo on.
âUrsula is my wife.
âYouâre smiling at that? Sap. If that fucker Canning doesnât lay off me Iâll knife him.
âRelax. Youâll be a manager too one day and then you can be a bollocks.
I sit in the cubicle and stare at the chipboard door. The same coarse talk out of them every day. Did he drop the hand? Iâd fucking kill him if he said that to me. Shut up you. Prick. Got to get out of this poxy place. Iâm about to swear when I stop myself. She warned me about my language. She has a habit of entering my thoughts when Iâm on the edge of anger. The morning after the honeymoon. Lying in bed in the hotel. We were
Readers choose
Kenzie Macallan
Karen Robards
Carole Bugge
Rita Herron
Clover Autrey
L. E. Modesitt Jr.
Jeane Westin
Tatiana Boncompagni
Rebecca A. Rogers
Michelle Celmer