Light going down like beer in a glass, white clouds of foam still clinging to the walls of the sky.
I'm trying to settle but I keep going to the window. Look left and right for Tom.
Keep listening for the sound of his tractor.
When I was still a schoolboy I had a friend who sometimes came to see me. He lived a village or two away. It was always a loose arrangement. Sometimes he'd arrive, other times not.
The waiting feeling's just the same. Hard to relax, give up on the visit and just get on with things when at any moment...
It was always cold. Always night. The car would pull up and the interior light would come on.
The dad would smile. Say a word, his cigarette glowing from his knuckle. The poor boy had asthma and hated smoking, but that's how things were back in those days. Didn't make him a bad dad. The social pariah that it would now.
I don't think Tom's going to make it tonight.