his Japanese wife


Unhurriedly driving down to catch the noon ferry to the mainland. A dark green Mitsubushi L200 pick up which the driver thinks is black.
Hooked up to a trailer with two dead stags on board. Roddy, the man at the wheel, wears an olive coloured checked shirt. On his head a John Deere baseball cap that he refuses to give up on. Whilst the woman, Rebecca, sitting  in the passenger position has dressed herself in his favourite red checked shirt he got from a farm shop at a knock down price.
Both persons are joyful. Two hungry hearts out on the weekend. Joking and joshing with each other. Disputing the choice of Johnny Cash album on the player. He wants to put on House of Cash because it’s an unplayed birthday from Rebecca. But she’s looking for a sing a long good time greatest hits vibe. Teasingly she plays Hurt. Together they bellow and howl out the words as they drive through the forest on the coastal road.

And there’s yesterday. Fragments of their history. Blue sky day. A wind more than a breeze blows. Hanging out the laundry she shouts to him, How’s your Japanese wife? He laughs back at her, I’m not married. Never have been. And, I’ve never had a relationship with a Japanese woman.
She pegs a pair of his boxer shorts to the yellow transparent nylon line.
What’s her name? I assume she has a name and you learned?
Keiko. She likes to be called Kei. I’m going to make coffee. You want some?
Coffee was a sticking plaster. A gesture of appeasement.
Sure, she replied bending over to pick up a pair of kanji covered boxer shorts from the yellow plastic washing basket.


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