The Last Word, The British Library

November air laps at the ankles like a cold tide on a warm day.

A sea of distant mundane chatter froths at the feet and dissolves into the pawed sand of the ground below.

There are cracks in the ground.

Shells, I tell myself. There are thousands of tiny shells embedded beneath my toes.

But shells are intricately ridged and iridescently detailed. This floor is smooth and plain. Too smooth. Too plain. This conversation is too smooth, too plain.

You bury your chin into the rockpool of your jacket. It is too cold, you say.

It is not the only thing, I want to reply.

Still, you dig your hands into the depths of your pockets and bundle all 20,000 leagues of yourself into a knotted, woollen chest. You have closed up like a clam.

I try to coax you out of your shell; baiting you with questions, anchoring you with gently-spoken words. My efforts are futile; you are in too deep.

So, I let waves of suburbia wash over me as I too sit in that deathly silence of rock bottom. Head swims with thoughts, eyes brim with tears. Seconds float past.

Minutes. Hours.

I cannot hold my breath for much longer.

Without warning, you push back your chair and rise to the surface. I want to pull you back under and whisper my siren song, make you linger for just a little longer.

Time to go. My heart sinks.

The chance has gone, my ship has sailed.

And, once again, you have had the last word.