As the boat glided across the lake in exactly the same way a bowling ball wouldn’t, she offered him a small hand that was as gentle and steady, as a pneumatic drill was hard and shaky.
‘Jason.’ She murmured, and the name drifted across and nibbled at his ear, in the complete opposite way a shark rips pieces out of an unsuspecting surfer.
‘Yes, my dear?’ Her eyes were deep, if up were down, they’d be mountains. But as it isn’t, they weren’t. ‘God,’ he thought, ‘her eyes are deep.’ They were the depth of a million teaspoons.
‘Would you… would you call me Steve?’ Her diminutive voice quavered and small tears had gathered in the corners of her eyes, as crisp and clean as a sewage pipe after a flush was dirty. He held his gaze as steady, and thought, ‘Yes,’ his stomach rumbled, not at all like an otter mewls, ‘teaspoons.’
‘I love you…’ he paused, ‘…Steve.’
‘Oh!’ She said. And across from his bristling moustache, her face lit up, in exactly the same way an ex-smoker can’t.A struggling writer, Simon Stratton has won awards for:
– The best use of the letter ‘r’ in a sentence
– Translating David Beckham’s Autobiographies into Hutonti (the language of a minor African tribe (pop. 62)).