They announced on the radio that Freddie was dead. I picked up the phone.
“Come over,” he said.
We mourned over Australian Shiraz, vintage vinyls spinning, tearful voices joined in remembered lyrics.
I told him about my divorce, the sadness of the end. Didn’t say that I’d married the wrong man.
He told me about her, how she needed him, relied on him. Never mentioned love.
As dawn rose pink over the city skyline, we crawled out of his bedsit window. Side by side, we gazed across silent rooftops.
Into the sharp November air, Freddie sang to us about love.
Photographer: Neil Howard
Hie Denise Bayes. If I want to reference your work how can I do that. Need to use the story for my English short story assignment. Your assistance will be greatly appreciate in this regard.
Simply beautiful.
Thank you so much!