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Tina Regtien

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It takes thirty five minutes to drive home, from his good job as an accountant at the hospital. He sings along to the radio ‘Hey der … girl … der street … fancy free …’  Taps the steering wheel. Remembers their wedding, her shoes – white satin (perched arctic birds) on snow. The silhouette of his patrician nose. Two tickets to a new life warm in his breast pocket. Doubts, he had none.

He will serve ouzo and smoke a cigar at the party. Perhaps he will even play guitar. The windows of the Mon Desire are open, patrons and plants spill onto the street. Ah, just one. He stops for a stout.





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