As he walked away from the football fields he heard a cheer. One of the kids must have scored. He looked at the time on his phone: it was fine, he’d be in the pub in twenty. Sometimes he wondered whether his own boy liked playing football. How old would he be now? Nine, maybe ten? Sarah had made it so difficult though. Splitting up was difficult. She’d taken him. It was better if you just stayed away – and they would be okay for money. Her family would help. What could he do anyway? He was skint. He couldn’t help.
Published by MW Bewick
Writer of poetry and place; editor and journalist. Co-founder of Dunlin Press. Books including Pomes Flixus, The Orphaned Spaces and Scarecrow are available from http://dunlinpress.bigcartel.com View more posts