red against grey

On love, shame, and the stories we tell ourselves...

It was drizzling by the time he stepped out of the card shop, a persistent rain that hung in the air and dampened the edges of the pavement. The sky was grey and seamless, like a primer, and it made the balloon look almost indecent in its brightness. It was enormous, a red heart so wide it seemed to tug at his wrist with a will of its own, and he had known as soon as he saw it in the window display that this was the one.

He could have chosen a smaller one; there had been rows of them. But he had forgotten last year entirely, let the day pass without even noticing, and he had watched her that evening move about the kitchen with a careful lightness that made him feel the absence more sharply than any argument would have.

The rain ran down his neck and blurred his lenses as he walked down the high street. People’s eyes snagged on the balloon, making him feel self-conscious. In the reflection of a shop window he caught sight of himself: dark coat, sensible shoes, shoulders slightly hunched, and above him the red heart pulling against the weather as if it resented him.

Outside the pub on the corner, a group of men stood smoking, collars turned up, pints balanced on the ledge beneath the window. One of them looked at the balloon, then at him, and said something that made the others laugh. He looked forward and resisted the urge to shorten the string or walk faster, and he resented himself for feeling the sting of it at all.

He thought of her at home, probably still working at the small table by the window, the lamp on even in daylight. He pictured the narrow hallway, the warmth that stayed inside it, and the practised way she would look up and give him a quick smile. The balloon lifted and dipped in the wind, and he let it.

Further along, near a closed betting shop, he noticed a figure in a recessed doorway that seemed unnatural in its stillness. At first it looked like a heap of clothes pushed into the corner to keep dry, but as he drew closer he saw a man curled up, back against the brick, legs tucked tight, a thin sleeping bag darkened by rain. One shoe was missing; the exposed ankle was blotched and raw.

The man’s head was bowed low, chin resting against his chest, rain collecting along the line of his hair. He stopped, and for a moment he thought the man might not be breathing.

He crouched, the ribbon pulling taut as the balloon dipped above the doorway, its bright curve almost grotesque against the dull brick. He reached out and pressed his hand to the man’s shoulder, feeling the thinness beneath the coat.

“Hello,” he said. “Can you hear me?”

There was a pause, long enough for him to imagine the worst, and long enough, too, for him to notice how quickly his mind began arranging what he would do next.

Then the man stirred. His eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first, then settling on his face and lifting, curiously, to the red shape above them.

“Yeah,” the man said, voice rough. “Just tired.”

Relief came embarrassingly fast.

“I’ll get you something hot,” he said, already turning towards the café a few doors down.

The warmth inside fogged his glasses. As he stepped through the doorway, the balloon caught sharply on the frame and jerked backwards, the string biting into his wrist, and he had to tug it free with an awkward movement that made him feel clumsy and conspicuous. He ordered a large tea and paid without looking at the change, and as he waited he watched other people sit with dry sleeves and warm hands, and felt, briefly, how much of his life was built from unnoticed small certainties.

When he returned, the man in the doorway was sitting more upright, arms wrapped tight around himself. Up close, his face looked older than he had first thought, lines cut deep around the mouth, lips pale with cold. He handed over the cup and watched the man close both hands around it.

“Thank you,” the man said, and glanced again at the balloon. “Someone’s lucky.”

He followed the man’s gaze upwards. The balloon hung above them, rain-speckled and bright, absurd and unmistakable.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

He stood for a moment longer, wanting to do something more than this, wanting to be better than a single gesture once a year, and knowing, with a familiar discomfort, that he had always been good at intentions and less good at the daily attention that gave them life. Then he nodded, because he did not trust himself to say anything that would sound performative, and stepped back into the street.

At the car park, he opened the rear door and guided the balloon inside, pressing it down gently so it would fit. It filled the back seat completely. He closed the door carefully, making sure the ribbon did not catch.

For a moment he sat behind the wheel, watching the rain gather and slide across the windscreen. His wrist stung where the string had rubbed, and when he looked down he could see a red mark on the skin.

He started the engine and drove home, and every so often, waiting at a junction, his fingers touched that sore place. The balloon filled the rear-view mirror, refusing to let the day become a story.