As the last leaf dropped from the tree, Zoë thought back to the crazy events of the summer. Those bright cheerful warm mornings a far cry from today. It was foggy and the cold was biting. Daddy-longlegs flew up from the patchy grass, disturbed as Zoë circumvented the old silver birch, running her hand around its trunk.
She knocked the wind-chimes that hung silently from a branch, destroying the peace. Through the mist, from the bottom of the garden, Zoë could just make out the silhouette of the house. She paused and surveyed the rest of the garden, as the chimes continued to clang together but were somehow deadened by the perfect calm and stillness of her surroundings.
"Anyway, so you’re a teacher," said Steven, consciously running the tip of his finger around his pint glass as it stood on the table; himself repeating what she had previously said before he got side-tracked.
There was a natural break in the conversation and Steven noticed a friendly glint in her eye. She smiled at him. She seemed very relaxed; as if they had all the time in the world. But they didn’t: they had a rapidly diminishing three minutes.
These stories and extracts are © copyright Martin Balmer and may not be reproduced in anyway or any form including but not limited to blog posting, printed material, web site pages or video broadcast without the expressed written permission from Martin Balmer.
