on the fence in the sun
The next day she blocks out the night’s events. She makes herself a coffee just in time for her break to begin, walks up to central park and sits on a bench in the winter sunshine, drinking her coffee. She takes cream and five sugars. Her sips are minute but big enough for the coffee to fully warm her up inside. She smiles and looks around, watching the kids play and dogs tire themselves out and… And who’s that?
A boy is standing in profile about ten metres away from her. He has soft, chestnut brown hair which has clearly been relaxed but is curling back up a little. His coat is dusty pink and well fitted, but a little ragged. His skin is smooth, but purple circles are clear under his brown eyes. A poorly-concealed dark red hickey is visible under his chin. His sleeves are long. He’s twenty one. His middle name is Marisol. Cordelia is short of breath. She feels like she can’t move. She sits still, stunned, frozen because Whizzer fucking Brown has pulled a Lazarus and he’s standing right there and-
She’s lifted off her feet, into the air, spun around. She’s smelling sandalwood and rosewater and home. She holds on with all the her strengthen, unable to speak, unable to make a sound. There’s a damp spot on her shoulder. His tears are stinging her skin and she’s crying too but it’s okay. Everything is okay. Whizzer’s back and everything is okay.