It was only when everyone had sat down to dinner that the enormity of the situation hit Ade and Bri. Nothing to remember him by but a jar of old chili sauce - or was it an old jar of chili sauce - all that remained in the place set for him, empty, barren, the cold wind of desolation whistling round an empty chair.
It was Ade who cracked first.
"I can't quite believe," he whispered into his hanky, "that he is not here. I feel ... so empty inside."
Bri gritted his teeth. He gritted his knees. He gritted his toes. But it was no good. Grit just wouldn't stay on without a bit of glue. He pushed on, trying to keep his chin from quivering. "It's no good," he croaked. "My chili is as like dry ashes in my mouth. How can I sing, twirl, pirouette like per normal when James isn't here. I am bereft, floating on a sea of loneliness, lost in a fog of something or other. "
They wept, these two men. Yes, wept. Two grown men wept for the memory of Burnsy who even at this moment was getting up to unmentionable things back 'ome and had probably even had a carry out and a run to the offy and was blithely unaware of the deep suffering in a brick building somewhere between Skipton and Harrogate.
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|Lens:||see above |
|Recording media:||RAW (digital)|