Endins. Beginnins. Nothin iver beginnin or endin. Continuity contains entropy, stasis contains movement. Nae metter how many times ra knife chops, severs, slices, divides, nothin separates.
A get in ra lift oan ra 10th floor. Ra man awready in ther came fae higher up. E could be 35, or 60; ra povurty, diet, smokin an bevvyin in ra Wyndford gie age a different meanin. E’s smokin in ra lift, even though it’s against regulations, an fur a second A consider no gettin in ra lift wi im, but A dae.
E’s talkin tae is dug. “Ye’re ma good girl. Ye’ll feel better soon, eh? Good girl.”
“Is she ill?” A ask.
“She goat somethin oan er tail oot ther in ra grass.” E points tae a herrless, crusty sore. “A goat some cream fae ra vet, an she’s gettin bettur.”
When wi leave ra buildin, A walk bi ra rivur, an e walks wi ra dug oan ra path thit runs parallel, separated fae ra Kelvin Walkway bi bushes. Wi cannae see each uthir, but A hear im. “Ye’re a good girl, eh? A’ll look eftur ye. Ye’ll feel bettur soon. C’moan an wu’ll huv a wee walk aboot.”
It snawed in ra Wyndford ra day, but noo it’s evenin, an ra snaw has turned tae ice an slush. A walk through it in baby steps, kerryin a heavy bag ay groceries in each haund.
Thir’s a railin, an a young wumman oan the ither side ay it. She’s goat three plastic bags; wan hauds a boattle ay Irn-Bru, anither a boattle ay cider, an ra thurd a mix ay food an claes.
“Excuse me,” she says. “Wull ye gie me a haund? A cannae get they bags ower ra railin. A’m homeless, an A need tae get tae ma tent.”
A pit ma ain bags doon oan ra slushy grun, an she passes hurs tae me ower ra railin. Then she climbs, hings, an jumps. Whin she lands she slips, an A catch an steady er.
As A walk away, she says, “Dae ye happin tae huv any sper chinge?”
“A don’t think so,” A say, pittin wan ay ma bags doon an pittin a haund in ma poackit.
“A know A’m kind ay rippin ra cunt oot ay ye,” she says. “A don’t mean tae.”
“A huvae goat any,” A say. “Sorry.”
“Thanks anywiy. Thanks a lot.”
“Take care.” A pick up ma bag an walk hame.
In Tesco, a young man mumbles a question tae ra middle-aged man at ra checkoot. “Dis it coast 50 pence tae piy wi a debit cerd?”
“Naw, no here, pal. It’s free.”
dubh is a Scottish writer and Zen Buddhist hermit