“What do you think it’s like? Being old I mean.” My younger
self muses with feigned thoughtfulness. Everything about this girl is forced
and affected. I spent most of those summers pretending to be the next big
thing. Even relaxing on this beach her shoulders are still pushed back and
she’s arching her spine in that particular way.
“Lots of greying nose hair and a big bristly moustache I
imagine. And that’s just for you.” The lazy teasing drawl of her companion untwists
the pretentious chit and she throws a discarded shoe at him. Laughter, precious
and real, bubbles between them.
Back then of course we had no true conception of time. Young
and careless we thought that real life was something that only happened to
other people. Being old seems to me now not a matter of increasing years but of
multiplying regrets. If I had known what was to come, would I have acted
differently? With hindsight it is easy to see how much time we wasted in banality,
but we imagined that we had all the time in the world to say everything.
Perhaps in the intervening years we would have grown apart.
The overlapping circles of our lives stretching to breaking point. But the
suddenness of our separation meant that you have remained by my side as the
person you were then. A perpetual youth, a constant friend. Only I have changed
and now there is nobody left to share it with.
“You beast!”Her
shrill cry echoes as cold water slaps suddenly against her legs. Picking
herself up she runs after his chuckling figure. Their silhouettes merge and
break as they cavort across the shoreline together. As the salty breeze tugs at
the greying strands of my hair I turn away, allowing our younger selves to return
to a happier past.
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