The Third Time We Meet

By Kathryn Aldridge-Morris

The terraza’s closed to stop a Castilian corriente sweeping through the flat, smashing doors and breaking glass.


My lover’s mother doesn’t turn from the hob.


She rips a bulb from a garland of garlic, digs into the flesh, splits it into cloves. ‘Qué?’

From a sack, a squirming sound: shell against shell, squeaking legs, antennae, mandibles. She extracts a blue-green crayfish, its body writhes in her hand.

‘Amelia, I’m pregnant.’

She plunges the animal into boiling water; it hisses on impact, shell flares into red.
Much later I’ll ask if that noise is a scream, or just air.

“I write as a way to find flow, get a buzz, uncover meaning.” – the writer

7 thoughts on “The Third Time We Meet

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s