Version five

He was glad to see the sun had dipped below the little row of shops. Shade was welcome during this heatwave. He passed the chip shop — someone inside was wearing white flannels, pouring cut potatoes from a silver mesh basket into a chrome container, steam hovered around the top. The whoosh of steam as potatoes hit the boiling water stopped him. He gazed at the man, wondering if he really wanted to be in there. The chip man looked up and smiled, then waved a hand in front of his face — showing him it was hot work. The man smiled back, waved, then carried on walking.

Stopping outside a large paned window, he reached inside the pocket of his shorts and pulled a picture out — a picture of the same window he was standing in front of — he studied the picture, running a finger over it. A swallow painted in blue and white spread across the glass, behind the glass a small chair with a model skeleton sitting in it. An easel with a large painting of an old Indian warrior, his white feathered headdress above a face full of stories.

He looked at the glass front. The tattoo sign remained, as did the large Indian. The swallow had flown, the skeleton gone — a casket of ashes on his sister's dressing table, alongside a picture of a young smiling lady, came to his mind. His throat became tight. He walked to a low wall beside the tattoo studio and sat. The photo image shone bright. He looked at the window — it was still alive, still inviting. Perhaps it was only him that knew the skeleton had returned to the ground and the swallow had taken the glow. He turned to the window one last time as a warm breeze whispered you only have a small window of time to do something amazing.

He stood up, took a deep breath. "You have a small window of time," escaped his lips. He pulled the photo close to his chest, smiled, and quickly walked back — ignoring the whoosh and smell of cooked potatoes.

The chip shop man stood outside the shop, his brow heavy with sweat. He rested his back against the brick pillar of the doorway, pulled out a handkerchief and ran it over his face. Something flew past his eye — he flicked the handkerchief in its direction, but it was gone. He turned and walked back inside the shop. The dragonfly pushed to the sky, avoiding the fabric — it flew past the man walking quickly, then settled down on the wall where he'd been sitting.

He reached his house, placed a key in the oak door's lock. The heat had swelled the door, making the lock stiff. He placed a half-filled carrier bag down on the ground with the photo on top. He pulled the door and turned the key at the same time — sweat appeared on his forehead — the lock scraped in its chamber and sprang open. He bent down, picked up the bag, walked in and closed the door behind him. The photo fluttered along the pathway and out the front gate.

He reached for a glass, ran the cold tap and poured a pint glass of water. He took a sip, turned towards his desk and sat down. He looked up at the whirring sound of the light fan spreading warm air around — the open window brought inside his neighbours' children splashing and laughing in their makeshift pool. He opened a new Word document. Titled it — a life story. He studied printed emails from her friends and family he'd asked a while back for stories on her. He started writing.

His fingers flowed over the keyboard, stopping often to delete and redo lines. He picked up an email, studied it, moved the warm water to one side, replacing it with the page of text — he removed his top, where a sweat patch had appeared on the front and back.

He stared at an email, rereading, placing it down by the water. He looked past it, fingers hovering over the keyboard. He hit backspace and removed a paragraph.

His fingers landed heavily on the keyboard, writing fast. She was the the kindest most bravest person I I ever no one will no how much. He stopped, finger touching the backspace. He lifted it and continued writing furiously.

Sweat dripped from his forehead over his eyes — he brushed them aside, body drifting further forward, head closer to the screen. He stopped, and looked down at the emails, pulling through them.

His hand stopped.

The dragonfly flew past the open window. He stared through the opening, but it had gone.

He went back searching through the emails. His hands stopped. Paperwork fell to the floor until he was holding a handwritten note only.

People see me, but they don't see how scared I am at not succeeding. How I lack confidence with everything I do. I'm obsessed with being perfect — even though I know perfection is impossible I strive to achieve it, and it hurts. But... we only have a small window of opportunity to do something special.

He placed the note down beside the water. On the keyboard he saved his file to the life story folder and named it version 5. He opened a new doc.

He wrote a paragraph, then read it through and smiled. This zine is in memory of a local artist whose wish was to spread colour wherever she went. Her dash is worth more than the dates beside it. He placed the cursor at the top of the page, going to title it — but could only stare at the blinking cursor. He looked down and picked up the warm glass. He got up and moved to the tap, flushed the warm water away and replaced it with fresh.

Either side of the dead plant the flowers had opened to a deep red, behind them a purple. A dragonfly hovered, then rested on the plant, its colours striking against the wilted, bare stems. He turned away, sipped his water, and walked back to the desk.