The First of June

By Sarah Creighton Keogh

From a café in Glasgow

Today is the first of June, and there is a heatwave across Scotland. 

There is a man across the way, extending each step fully, stretching out broad legs. Slow. After all, he’s on the way home. A white hard hat balances on the tips of his fingers. The hand they belong to is swinging the headpiece back and forth to the beat of those felt-out steps. 

Above the swinging hand is a set of tight shoulders. Solid, built upon, and broad home to no T Shirt. He is bare-chested and red. Hair begins along the line of his waist and reaches the beginning of his neck. The back of which a rolled-up high-vis vest rests. He strains his tanned face towards the sky. Wrinkled-eyed and open-mouthed.

There is filth and sweat on his forehead. It reflects the recent summer-like shimmer. He is on the way home from work. It is the first of June. There is a heatwave in Scotland. And in the low sun, he is covered in glitter.