This Coming Saturday at 11.43am.
Graham had always known he was slightly
psychic. He could always accurately
predict one, out of the six lottery
numbers every week. Well, nearly always.
And he could tell you if a coin would be
heads or tales, fifty per cent of the time,
which couldn’t just be a coincidence.
His unrivalled expertise however
was in predicting when church bells would peal.
His skin would stretch tight like a drum bracing
itself for the stick; nostrils would rabbit
twitch, all body hair would point magnetic
north and he’d whisper, “Look out! This is it”.
Though he knew, he knew it would happen, there
was always that suspension of breath and
heartbeat when anything might not happen;
followed by the wave of high-speed caffeine
adrenalin euphoria when it
did. No less than a kind of exquisite
dying in so many bittersweet ways.
This is why, he never went to weddings.