Fishing in Beirut

Sjal twirled the liquorice. It was red and black and sugar frosted, and seemed to hold more appeal as an accessory than food. She laughed and placed it down. Frank sat opposite, no drink before him as he’d just arrived, sweating and sore after walking from the river. They were at a café right outside her house.
It had been a strange moment, as he walked down the road in the stress heat, the ravaging extreme, and there she had appeared, dressed in red and white, looking cool, at peace, and quite content to see him. He’d sat down and dropped bread he’d bought on the pavement. She drank her café solo and they talked of coloured string, the subject not as vital as the joy of words to say. They laughed at misunderstandings. Frank ordered nothing, the waiter never appeared, and the advancing clock pleasingly subdued some of the sun’s excess. She told him about Malmo.
He played with an unopened sugar pack. He learned of a connecting bridge between her city and Copenhagen. Spanish voices passed. She asked things about Dublin, was curious and real, and he answered like a teacher, and wasn’t quite sure why. He said the only Spanish word he knew was casa.
She said friends of hers were coming soon. One would be here in a few days, and would be staying who knows how long, with two others coming later, and staying just a week. Friends from Stockholm. The sugar conga’d in the packet like sand in an African shaker, as he shook it up and down rhythmically. The car they’d seen on fire lurched down the street, the bonnet black and pockmarked, a veritable hazard to the occupant, and, indeed, anyone else in the vicinity. Frank checked his bread was still there.