Slate Roof

We’re stood at the window in the slate roof in North Wales; there’s a seagull on the chimney bigger than my brother crouched in pyjamas and we spit onto the slate roof in the dark and it glistens in white gobs—perhaps on the night before he threw the shell at my head— seeing whose spit will reach the gutter first. Then she comes in suddenly with Orlando laughing; she’s in a long skirt and he’s shaved his head, just like when they got back to the car laughing, me pretending to be asleep in the back, and went and parked it at the top of the street where you could see the whole town.

Ruth Yates