Masquerade
by and published in Edition Nine of Pomegranate
“I can’t believe we kissed at that party,” he said, “remember the time I wouldn’t steal a packet of chewing gum from Woolworth’s and you called me the most boring person on Earth?”
“I’ve never kissed you,” I said.
“You did!” he cried, “but we were wearing masks so you couldn’t see my face.”
“Then how did you know it was me you were kissing?” I asked.
“I noticed the freckle on your collar bone,” he replied.
I shook my head. “It was someone else with a freckle on their collar bone.”
“No, no,” he said, “you change the very air around you. If I was in love with you before I’m even more in love with you now.”
“What I remember,” I said, “is swinging one leg over the sofa in the morning and my heel piercing a mask on the floor. I saw a crack from the eye-hole down and thought of a tear running parallel beneath it.”
“But you weren’t there in the morning because you were picked up at midnight,” he frowned.
“Oh,” I shrugged, “I must be thinking of a different mask party.”
Sophie Clarke
Back in the glory days, Sophie was a commended Foyle poet of 2007. She has more recently dabbled in a spot of poetcasting, and is soon to appear in Popshot magazine. In general she is rather too fond of cardigans and Radiohead. Also Kinder Scout, antique furniture, haribos and Viktor Shklovsky. Most likely to be found in her little Durham home, writing an essay on the shoeness of shoes at two o’clock in the morning. Rumoured to be anorexic. Aspires to be Thom Yorke. Probably the most unprolific writer ever.