I watch a girl in a white raincoat throw a ball in the empty park. Her terrier runs, leaps, skids to catch it, then bounds back, the ball between his grinning teeth, to lay it at her feet. A gift.
She laughs. She lifts the ball to throw it again. Her raincoat blows open, the wind is raw, whips hair the colour of honey around her face, obscuring it. The dog, uncaring, jumps high, catches, returns.
Your new woman wears a white raincoat. Perhaps she throws hard and fast, makes you leap high to catch the ball between aching jaws. When, proud and panting, you lay it at her feet, I hope she laughs.
Mary McCluskey is a journalist. Also, a reader, writer, dreamer, gypsy. She rarely tells the truth.