THE JUDGES

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The choice is yours –he sits in his wheelchair in the centre of the room a protective scarlet smoking cape draped around his shoulders like a cardinal. He raises his index finger - Giotto di Bondone she bends to arrange his feet on the footplates and fetches his cigarettes. The choice is yours, he repeats you can either put a pillow over my face or throw me in the river nurse. We would never do that she says No! come on - make the choice, he urges impatiently as she wheels him over the door frame bump into the garden, embracing the mushroom damp morning for his first light Cup of tea? She offers he nods Sugar? Yes he says, two She is a non-smoker but kindly lights his roll up as he sucks on it. With the mornings choices de-escalated, he contemplates as he exhales a cloud of smoke through cork dry lips You’re an angel he says, looking out over the courtyard painting his own fresco in the air

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End of the Night Shift