Read Online White Light by Mark O'Flynn - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mark O'Flynn
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noises. Mmm, mmm.
This is how his heart breaks, with a smile and a chuckle.
Because he is the IT guy, it does not take Lionel long to discover the photographs in the memory of her phone. Her pubic hair decorated with the seashells found on a recent excursion to the beach. It had been a lovely day. Theyâd had a picnic. He would recognise that pubic hair anywhere. Then the erotic movie Trudy has made of herselfâherself and a hairbrush. Not the bristly end, he says, wanting me to get the complete picture. He is not sure if erotic is the right word; what word would I use? Iâm the word guy. I say it sounds euphemistic, and he says exactly.
Do I want to see the movie, just to make sure? Itâs rather graphic.
There is a reluctant separation. There is talk of property division.
Fortunately, all this has no bearing on the ping-pong, other than putting Lionel off his game, which is to my momentary advantage. But I know heâll bounce back. The tide will turn. There is my metaphor. Resilience. Already he has started going out with one of our colleagues, who must feel sorry for him, although I should not presume her motives.
I saw Lionel sketching out an equation for her: 0 + 0 + 2 + 0 + 1 + 0 + 1 + 0. From that it was easy to predict the outcome. She seems a nice girl, who looks remarkably like Trudy, but without the biceps. Far be it for me to pursue that comparison. This affair is skating along rapidly, so much so that I have to admire his quick work. Lionel is bouncing back. There is talk of their moving in together, of property amalgamation. I have to admire how adherence to the truth, something I am not very good at, or so I have been told, has given Lionel a particular way of being in the worldâa moral principle, he has that at least, by which to live his life.
THE ISTHMUS
H ector and I are on a touring holiday of the south. Since his retirement we have seen quite a lot of the country in our campervan, home away from home. Hector has a story for every place visited. He is a mine of information. Yesterday, we saw the bottomless, blue lakes of Mount Gambier and now we have arrived at the famed Twelve Apostles (although there are only eight), on Victoriaâs rugged south coast.
There, I might have written that on a postcard. Dear Grandchildren, the weather is a) sunny, b) overcast, c) wet, d) all of the above. Ah! must be in Victoria. Donât forget the date: Fifteenth of January, 1990. I would not write that; after all this time on the road, I am getting a bit fed up with Hector and his stories.
The Twelve Apostles, all eight of them, as you sweep around the coastal cliff top road are certainly a majestic sight, or is that a magisterial one? Hector parks the van and I buy a postcard from the stand in the kiosk. A touring coach has just disgorged its cargo of bus-sick passengers, half of them lined up outside the ladies toilet.
âShall we have our picnic?â Hector asks.
âI should go to the lav first.â
âLook at that queue,â he says. âLetâs duck out over this London Bridge or whatever itâs called, then have our sandwiches.â
âYes, Iâd kill for a cup of tea.â
Hectorâs Hawaiian shirt is a little garish for Victoria, so I ask him to put on his jacket.
The London Bridge is a spectacular limestone archway that leans over the water to a pair of conjoined, rocky outcrops. Although they are not technically Apostles, they do form a pretty distinctive feature of the cliffs and coastline. Actually, it is what they call an isthmus, with a couple of giant cavities burrowing through it like a Swiss cheese and the waves crashing through. Iâll take a photo after lunch.
It feels nice to stretch our legs. It should only take a few minutes to wander out there and back and then a lovely cup of Liptons. So, we stroll across the road and down the gravel path and over the London Arch (its other name) and barely thirty seconds after we have
This is how his heart breaks, with a smile and a chuckle.
Because he is the IT guy, it does not take Lionel long to discover the photographs in the memory of her phone. Her pubic hair decorated with the seashells found on a recent excursion to the beach. It had been a lovely day. Theyâd had a picnic. He would recognise that pubic hair anywhere. Then the erotic movie Trudy has made of herselfâherself and a hairbrush. Not the bristly end, he says, wanting me to get the complete picture. He is not sure if erotic is the right word; what word would I use? Iâm the word guy. I say it sounds euphemistic, and he says exactly.
Do I want to see the movie, just to make sure? Itâs rather graphic.
There is a reluctant separation. There is talk of property division.
Fortunately, all this has no bearing on the ping-pong, other than putting Lionel off his game, which is to my momentary advantage. But I know heâll bounce back. The tide will turn. There is my metaphor. Resilience. Already he has started going out with one of our colleagues, who must feel sorry for him, although I should not presume her motives.
I saw Lionel sketching out an equation for her: 0 + 0 + 2 + 0 + 1 + 0 + 1 + 0. From that it was easy to predict the outcome. She seems a nice girl, who looks remarkably like Trudy, but without the biceps. Far be it for me to pursue that comparison. This affair is skating along rapidly, so much so that I have to admire his quick work. Lionel is bouncing back. There is talk of their moving in together, of property amalgamation. I have to admire how adherence to the truth, something I am not very good at, or so I have been told, has given Lionel a particular way of being in the worldâa moral principle, he has that at least, by which to live his life.
THE ISTHMUS
H ector and I are on a touring holiday of the south. Since his retirement we have seen quite a lot of the country in our campervan, home away from home. Hector has a story for every place visited. He is a mine of information. Yesterday, we saw the bottomless, blue lakes of Mount Gambier and now we have arrived at the famed Twelve Apostles (although there are only eight), on Victoriaâs rugged south coast.
There, I might have written that on a postcard. Dear Grandchildren, the weather is a) sunny, b) overcast, c) wet, d) all of the above. Ah! must be in Victoria. Donât forget the date: Fifteenth of January, 1990. I would not write that; after all this time on the road, I am getting a bit fed up with Hector and his stories.
The Twelve Apostles, all eight of them, as you sweep around the coastal cliff top road are certainly a majestic sight, or is that a magisterial one? Hector parks the van and I buy a postcard from the stand in the kiosk. A touring coach has just disgorged its cargo of bus-sick passengers, half of them lined up outside the ladies toilet.
âShall we have our picnic?â Hector asks.
âI should go to the lav first.â
âLook at that queue,â he says. âLetâs duck out over this London Bridge or whatever itâs called, then have our sandwiches.â
âYes, Iâd kill for a cup of tea.â
Hectorâs Hawaiian shirt is a little garish for Victoria, so I ask him to put on his jacket.
The London Bridge is a spectacular limestone archway that leans over the water to a pair of conjoined, rocky outcrops. Although they are not technically Apostles, they do form a pretty distinctive feature of the cliffs and coastline. Actually, it is what they call an isthmus, with a couple of giant cavities burrowing through it like a Swiss cheese and the waves crashing through. Iâll take a photo after lunch.
It feels nice to stretch our legs. It should only take a few minutes to wander out there and back and then a lovely cup of Liptons. So, we stroll across the road and down the gravel path and over the London Arch (its other name) and barely thirty seconds after we have
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