every love story is a ghost story

Imagine walking along a river. The sun is hanging low in the late evening, casting its golden glaze about and colouring the sky a faint indigo. An ochre sheen tinges the edges of granite and long leaves of Lomandra as the water gradually loses its lustre, clear lines coalescing into a dusky and diffuse orange, shapes dissolving into impressionist wraiths. You reach the bridge which joins the two sides of the river. You lean on its stony balustrade, resting your elbows against the parapet. You look down at the embankment, its grassy knolls and plainly tiled walkways. The water runs shallow and clear and you can just about see the bottom of the river, erratic mosaics of dark rocks embedded in the mud. The stream surges briskly just inches above the riverbed.

In the distance, couples sit on the grass or amble intimately. A man comes along and stands next to you, just a few feet away. He leans against the balustrade looking out at the embankment while smoking a cigarette. On his nose are perched a pair of thin, wire-frame glasses which complement the many wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. He is wearing an equally wrinkled plain brown short sleeved shirt with the first few buttons unbuttoned and a pair of beige slacks which have been stained by some unknown substance unevenly at the bottom. His eyes look as if they are very tired, as if they have stayed open all night. He stares out into the distance as smoke from his mouth billows gently. A deep blue with streaks of pink stretches across the sky as the sun sinks lower and lower behind you. The man's eyes are fixed upon the riverbank. He stands there, silent and stationary except for the smoke escaping his lips. When he has finished his cigarette, he stamps out the smouldering remnant on the ground with the heel of his foot and wipes his hands on the front of his pants. He then scratches something into the balustrade and walks off with hands in his pockets.

By this time nothing is left of the daylight except a tender patch of blue still lingering over the horizon. The street lights have come on and several windows of faraway apartments are variously illuminated. The lovers have become silhouettes, lolling in the darkness and leaning into each other. A cool breeze sweeps in from the city, lightly brushing your arms and face. You stand there watching the skyline disappear. You watch the colour drain from the sky completely. Now even the lovers have left, and you stay on that street as empty as the night, nursing this feeling as the evening wind nuzzles its cold nose against you.