Page 68 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. IV #5

hide in plain sight.
there. He apologizes profusely and uncharacteristi- cally, for something else. He pulls me to him, into his chest, until I feel I may not be able to breathe.
I fish out the Lonely Planet Guide from my handbag and try asking him, again, whether this section of the blurb is accurate.
Alhambra’s green rooftop sparkles in the near dis- tance. If we reach out, we may be able to touch it. People look like giant ants as they traverse perfectly cut and preserved garden paths, take pictures and sit as close as they can to any cool or shady surface.
“This whole thing is out-of-date,” he says without look- ing at it. “Let’s go this way.” He takes my hand again. We walk for a solid, silent ten minutes.
After a while, he slows up. I think he’s found what he was looking for. A fortified encampment, an alcazaba. It looks sturdy, but very aged – tired, even. I spy a lone security guard strolling on top of the ramparts, and spot a couple emerging from the cool shadows under- neath him.
He kisses me. “Dad was always right. He knew I’d love this place.”
Jabir’s eyes are on a stairwell tucked into the side of the encampment, blocked by a sign: “No Entrada.” We slip in and it feels as if we’ve become both invincible and invisible.
In bed that night shortly after his father’s funeral, I had considered asking Jabir again about his work day, but felt like a fraud. We needed a holiday, I think is what I had said instead. He agreed sleepily, making an exaggerated yawn and rolled over on top of me. We made love as if we’d gone back to our start.
The narrow, winding coolness of the alcabaza’s stair- well calms me a little as we climb. It smells of a time before the universe began. A wall of light hits us in- stantly as we reach the roof, before it fades and reveals a glorious view of every garden in Alhambra, all in brilliant technicolor.
“Are you ok?” I asked him, afterwards.
Jabir drops his bag by his feet and grasps the railing of the roof’s balcony.
He nodded, exhausted. “And dad,” he muttered, before falling asleep.
I didn’t correct him. He turns to look at me as if he’s just remembered I’m
“Worth it?” I ask. 59
Agnus made the Bridport Prize 2012 Short Story shortlist, and is included in two anthologies, the flash fiction Twisted Tales, and poetry and prose My Baby Shot Me Down.
“Yes, babe,” he said.
“We should go see your mum,” I managed.