Sunday

Fall has begun its decent on Scotland earlier than expected for us. Mid-August summer gave up a meager fight, where it’s entrails of green once patched the city, the bright colors of flora death can no longer be missed.

The early afternoon of a Sunday tricks you into a false comfort, warmth, almost due to the vehicular exhaust rather than the sun. It envelopes you but not like smog, cleaner, lighter even. By five the winds come in, they bring the same determined chill, changed only by the absence of drizzling water.
Everyday after work, I wish I had brought my jacket, more-so for the comfort of its size, as I sneak my body in like a non-existent, urban-fall turtle.

On this specific Sunday a Canadian Thanksgiving in Scotland has just come to pass. The company of nine guests included each of one Greek, Indian & British born, leaving seven Canadians to introduce the holiday and its gathering of family and friends as a gracious enemy to the bulimic.

In the ranks of said company stood three unique strangers.

The first was of British decent.

Having served as a nurse to paramilitary operations in Burma. She spoke of her given name being synonymous with the strict medical background of an Oxford education and the compassionate nature by which she would slip the dyings wishes between her legs, where they would pass without sufferings on their mind.

Hers was a gift where syphilis need not apply to the deads set of concerns.

The second was a Navy boy.

Serving three years within ranks one rung higher than cannon fodder, his OCD had never found a better home he would tell, lament on the tip of his tongue at home now being a traveled brigade.

In his second year of service the color major to his regiment called him into office. With grand fashion he spoke of the boy’s direction, the ambition he exemplified: The Navy spirit as it were.

He spoke of his own past, mirroring the boys own, stood solemn & proud as he faced him, told of his twenty some odd years in service. Smiled. He made the boy feel in his heart of hearts that he was on one of life's proper tracks, that is until the color major pulled a gun from his holster and shot himself upwards through the left cheek.

The last thing he told the boy was never to stay loyal to just one cause, an enigma awaited those who searched. Bang!

The boy has been traveling since. He’s just come back from S.Korea. He fucking hated it.

The third of the unique lay in the body of a light strawberry ginger, light milk in appearance, light effect in breasts.

She darted eyes to and from hosts then company, seeking to break solitudes from her tired searching fingers. She moved her skirt below her navel and found gazes in men that told her who she could place hurried interest in. She was only here for two more days.

We left without a suitable candidate writing scattered directions to their flat. She will sleep in her cot made for one again this evening, her fingers finding solitude again.

Thanksgiving had ended.