Third Summer

Cicero knew we’d disappoint ourselves – of course. She knew we’d come to realise that we couldn’t change who we were. That there was no way out of our condition. No escape. From what we were and continued to be.

Despite our summer nights! Despite our music friends! Despite their joyful example!

Our summer friends. Our summer reliables, who’d meet us at the back of our building on their bikes. With whom we’d cycle off, for summer sun-downers. For the Free Trade in the evening, the summer still bright above us.

Our summer peloton, along the Quayside. Along the Tyne. Until we carried our bikes up the steps to the Free Trade. To drink with our music friends around a table. To bring out beers on a tray for our friends.

And repairing to a music friend’s house for dinner after a few golden beers. For bottles of white wine with crème de cassis. For cured meats. For stews. And tequila – sipping tequila. Bottles of Jose Cuervo Reposado, for sipping.

And back to our offices, every morning. Working in our offices, every morning. And Cicero, observing it all. Cicero, admiring our summer tans. Smiling at our summer tales. Knowing that all that sun and drink had done nothing to lift our work.

How long would our summer optimism last? For the whole of summer? The first summer, yes. And for our second summer, too. But by our third summer? When we reread our work in our third summer?

 

Cicero knew our tragic hearts. She looked at us, smiling, indulgent. Even as she knew our summer optimism could not last.

Did we ever read our writing back? Did we ever reread what we’d written in our summer trances? Did we really think that summer had saved us, lifted us? Did we really think a summer spell had been cast? That would make us not as we were? That would transform our creaturely condition? Our prose styles? The content of our prose?