A Man. His Girl. That Tent.  by David Blissett

There is just enough heat. Down in the crumbling ashy pumice, under beds of black and silver, shielded from the wandering ice, there is a feeble heart pulsing red and gold. He coaxes and tickles and teases flames to life. Another fresh start. Oh yes.

He thinks about breakfast; scrambling the last of the eggs, or toasting the last of the bread. Definitely some coffee. Get the brain working. Warm the blood. He slides the tripod over the point of the flames and hangs the kettle. Steam rises immediately. It’s so cold.

The forest clearing winks and sparkles like a fairy story. Everything is white. Frozen tear drops hang in still life. The grass is thick and furry. Rays of gold cut in between the Ash trunks, setting fire to the undergrowth. The kettle boils. Water riots. Steamy mushroom clouds roll into the morning. From inside the tent he hears her moving.

There had been visitors in the night. Deep rumbling flanks and the clip of hooves on stone. Snorting and sniffing and hungry wet noses. Gurgling disputes from up in the canopy. Growling and snarls. The random sounds of night birds. They robbed him of sleep. That and...

His girl waddles out of the tent, wrapped in thermals and a blanket. Last night’s soft warm curves are a memory; but a good one. After two decades together, they could still create memories. He sits their cups together and makes the coffee the way he always does; the way he knows she likes it. She takes the cup from him, draws it to her face and lets the earthy steam dance around her nose. She smiles.

He watches her drink. She makes those little baby sips that squeak at the end. She’s still the same girl he met in 1990; even though her first greys have arrived and even though they both have a few laugh lines and even though they both carry some extra kilos.

Sure, things have changed. No more heart racing nerves; worries of feelings unreciprocated. No more novelty. No more excitement at new sensations. There is nothing new. There is nothing of her he hasn’t seen. His girl. Those things have been replaced by something altogether more satisfying. He knows that now – now that they’re in a tent. He knows the beauty of knowing; how to love and the urge to love her more deeply. Just knowing her.

He reaches down for the cool box, opens it and produces the last few eggs. She nods and she gathers up her bundles and she makes for the tent. No words. No need. She’s his girl. He knows how she likes her eggs.

Sunlight finally breaks out of the forest canopy. The campsite comes to life. Ice runs and flows and drips. He sees her moving around inside the tent – the vaguest motions of her shadow. She sits and she huffs and her legs start waving in the air as she kneads herself into yesterday’s muddy jeans. He thinks about her legs and her tight jeans, and peeling them off her last night. And he reminds himself that everything in life is better, when it’s done in a tent.

He slides a pan onto the coals and waits for the heat to set the fossilised grease running, and he cracks the eggs single-handedly and he takes to them with a fork. He whisks up warm dairy smells. Bubbling and crackling. A magpie warbles at the edge of the clearing. Notes soar into the morning like steam. He folds the eggs. And again. Then he rolls portions out onto their enamel plates. And he tells himself this is as good as his life has ever been.

Still he wonders what might be next. What will he become? What will they become? Where were they heading? Many had tried life. All had failed. Pain. Loss. Things to avoid. She slips out of the tent again, now wearing a polar fleece, those skin tight jeans and a smile that’s just for him. Thoughts of tomorrow fade.

For what is tomorrow when a man has his life, his girl and that tent.