City Kid

by Pat Johanneson

From here, he can see the grey colour of the wood, silver almost, weathered by decades of rain and wind and sun, the darker spots of rust surrounding the fat, large-headed nails used to hold everything in place. Beyond is the sky, its vast, cloudless blue bowl interrupted by the apple-heavy branches of trees outside the fence. He wonders, idly, how the apples taste when ripe; now they are a greenish-yellow colour, surely sour.

There is a buzz in the air, not entirely unpleasant, a nonsensical slur of sound that he knows he should comprehend, but which is, for some reason, just so much white noise right now.

A woman leans over him, familiar; red hair in ringlets to her shoulders, dishevelled in a way suggesting that it was, until recently, tied back. He imagines her wrapping the black elastic around it, sitting on the corner of her bed. Their bed.

Her lips move. White noise washes across him. His wife? Yes, she is his wife. Concerned.

Her lips move again. He struggles for comprehension. Are you okay?

He sits up, shakes his head, tastes blood. "I think I've lost a tooth," he says.

"Lucky he di'n't kill ya. Break yer fool neck." The voice comes from behind him, gruff and unsympathetic; turning his head, he sees a scowling old man in a meshback ball cap and overalls. The cap says POOL. "Damnfool city kid. Sneaking up on a horse like that."