The Scab on his Left Knee

We’d bunked off school that afternoon. Me and Pauline were lying in the tall grass. Henry was sitting away, with his back to us. For ages I looked, at his dark hair, deep black, almost purple, like a crow, and the whiteness of his neck, like ice-cold milk. His head was down, and he was picking at the scab on his left knee, pulling bits off and eating them. I could see the contours and the colour of his back where the shirt was stretched tight across it. The sun was high, and I was holding onto Pauline, and hoping … Continue reading The Scab on his Left Knee