Warped out of recognition

The bells chimed as Steve and Amy wandered round the old square. It was lunchtime and the smells of Crepes Suzette and pommes frites were enticing them from different directions.

Amy spotted a free table at a corner café and yanked Steve’s arm. “Steve! Quick!”

“I’ll catch up,” he said, pulling away. “I want to have a look at something,” and he headed for a nearby newsagents.

“Oh, Steve, I’m hungry. Don’t be long.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t. Order me anything.”

Steve’s concentration fell on a tall, narrow stand of postcards with a variety of Parisian views. One card however had leapt out. No cathedrals, museums or parks, but a solitary figure almost warped out of recognition.

“Dad,” Steve whimpered, grabbing the card before spinning the carousel for an indication of the price.

He paid the one euro and held the card to his chest as he walked to the café.

“I’ve ordered you a cheese baguette and black coffee… Steve?” Amy looked at her husband’s face, then down at his hands. “I didn’t think you did postcards.”

“I don’t… usually. I had to this time.”

“Let’s have a look.”

Steve handed her the card.

“Who’s this for?” Amy asked, looking at the card.


“Why?” She looked up. “Oh, Steve, can’t you let it go? It’s been years.”

“No. Have you got a pen?”

Amy fished around in her bag then handed him a blue thin felt tip. “Will this do?”

“Fine. Won’t be writing much.”

Steve sat down awkwardly on to the silver metal chair and stared at the picture. The card wobbled on the uneven table.

Amy searched her bag again and gave him a book to lean on.

Steve wrote the address then a simple message: ‘I’ll never forgive you.’


Photography courtesy of morguefile.com.

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