supplicium post mortem

She wasn’t a rower. Those people were beyond her in every way, more fit, more popular, more everything. She could scarcely do pull-ups at PE. He didn’t row either – that boy Andrew, from her class – until this summer.

From the slope above the tow-path, she watched as he dragged himself to the boathouse at dawn and every afternoon at four. She’d gone initially to watch him, but now she set her alarm as much to see the one who met him there. This other boy’s name she knew; everyone knew it – James. He’d been star of their rowing team until he left to row for Oxford. Now he rowed beside Andrew, his muscles flexing beneath the singlet he wore, held together at the shoulder with a safety pin. Through the binos she could see the scar on his forearm. There’d been a motor accident in his Upper Sixth year. He’d been dragged three hundred yards along the M25. He was lucky, they said.

She killed the mosquito on her cheek and trained the binos down into the boathouse. The sun cast long shadows through the windows. The path was clear, the evening still; their voices carried up the slope. He was berating Andrew now, as he often did, for his lack of effort. Andrew’s father hadn’t hired him to waste time, but to train Andrew up. Andrew shuffled and bent reluctantly over the scull. James held the back of his neck and raised a slipper. She watched.

Read other folks writing this week:

• Travis
• Frenchie
• PapaTomLA
• Rafi