Nuptial Flight

He was still warm when we got to him. His chin down to his chest and his cap angled over his eyes. He could so easily have been asleep, catching a few winks while his wife shopped. But the old guy had been there for hours. Janey from the café opposite told me that he had been there at least since the start of her shift. We struck an agreement; she would ring for an ambulance, while I checked on him.

If you need to know something about the demographics of this town, take a look at the shops. There were four cafes and three greeting card shops in my tiny shopping centre alone. This was a town for the elderly. I had foolishly decided to stay. Most of my friends had left. To college, to University. In an uncharacteristic act of rebellion, I had decided to take a year out, much to the chagrin of my father. After a month of concentrated inactivity, he had found me a job. Forty hours a week at the news kiosk, where I spent most of my time reading National Geographic and thinking about the Biology course I should have started. That and obsessing over a girl who had dumped me unceremoniously at the start of the Summer. At home I was a vapid ghost, avoiding the disapproval of my father and the relative disinterest of my mother. I’d made a big mistake.

It felt odd, touching this stranger. Intrusive. There was no pulse, even when I changed the pressure and position of my fingers on his wrist. I turned to Janey, who I could see at the back of the café, and shook my head. I saw her pick up the receiver.

On one day of the year, when the conditions of temperature and wind speed are correct, winged ants take flight. They emerge from the colony in a synchronised fashion to reduce loss by predation. The virgin queens are surrounded by males and mating occurs on the wing. They call it the nuptial flight. The queens land, tear off their wings and form new colonies. The males die soon after. They don’t get long to fly, but they have a role. What was my role ?

For a weekday afternoon, the place was busy. A steady stream of pushchairs, old folk and truants of all ages. I thought it was a shame he had died here, with all these people around him, but none of them knowing or caring.

He had slumped to one side slightly and I had fears that he was going to fall at the feet of the passing people, to be stepped over or wheeled around. I put my arm around his shoulder and pulled him tight to me so he wouldn’t slip. I could smell the mustiness of his overcoat and the slight odour of peppermint.

“It’ll be alright”, I told him, “You’ll see”.

The people passed by.

It’s funny how sitting, hugging a dead man in a shopping mall can give you time to think. It all came to the surface. My dad. The girl who dumped me. My stale little life.

By the time the paramedic put his hand on my shoulder, I was snivelling like a child. I had to explain that I didn’t know the old man. I left them to it and wandered into the café to find Janey.

“Thanks for doing that”, she said, “I wouldn’t have coped. He looked too much like my granddad”.

If she could see I’d been crying, she didn’t let on and I was thankful for that.

She made me a cappuccino. I felt strangely calm. I didn’t even think of the kiosk. I watched her as she served some customers, smiling. Her long brown hair tied back in bunches. Her slim frame. Her stocking legs. By the time she returned to my table, I was ready for her.

“Janey, will you go out with me this weekend ?”

She looked surprised. She blushed.

Richard Rippon writes stuff. He lives in the North East of England. He has also appeared in cautionarytale, Mannequin Envy, The Pygmy Giant and is due in 6S & Monkeybicycle. Some of his other work can be found here:My Space

Email: Richard Rippon

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