by Gina Perry
It rained all the way through last night, and when I pulled back the curtains this morning, your speakers were still there, lying there, between the bin and the curb, one on its side and the other on its back. Even from where I stood I could see the water that had collected in the cones, the sun made it glisten and the wind whipped across it, as if it were a tiny Lake Windemere outside our front door. I ran outside in my bare feet and picked up your green Adidas trainer, it was soaked wet through but I took it anyway. I thought about the speaker, that perhaps it was in the way, that an old lady with a walking stick might trip over it and break her hip, or a gentleman in his wheelchair might have to change his entire route to the shops to circumnavigate this blockade. My feet got cold standing there, so I went back inside, with your shoe but without the speaker. I miss you, come home.
Gina Perry, author of Tales from the Household, is a writer and storyteller in Manchester, England. She likes to entertain herself in pubs / bars / cafes / parks by asking strangers to tell her stories, true or otherwise.