Letter to my thirty-year-old self by Rachel Curzon

Letter to my thirty-year-old self

The people at the table opposite have brought along their greyhound, which is standing at their knees looking worried. Perhaps greyhounds always look worried; perhaps this is a quirk of the greyhound's mournfully elongated face, but this one seems particularly anxious. The greyhound is apparently too anxious to sit down. There is now an attempt at persuasion; there is a layering of soft and familiar blankets on the cafe's laminate flooring and a squaring off of corners to smooth any potentially uncomfortable rucks or ridges. In fact, there is now an offering of fleece-lined hoodie, placed there the way Sir Walter Raleigh may or may not have placed his cape across a section of damp ground. This, surely, is now a greyhound's paradise. And yet the couple are still taking turns to pat the material and make encouraging chirping sounds; they cannot concentrate on their brunch for one single moment. Instead, they touch and touch the blankets. In a minute, I think, one of them will lie down here in the cafe; they will sprawl

encouragingly on these blankets and look pointedly delighted. The greyhound yawns and even its yawn is tense; it is a tight and narrow yawn. Sit down, entreats the woman, or the man, but the greyhound stands. The greyhound quirks its worried eyebrows, and it stands, and it continues to stand.

Rachel Curzon lives in North Yorkshire. Some recent work has appeared in berlin lit, Magma, The Marrow and Ink, Sweat & Tears. Her pamphlet, Faber New Poets 16, was published in 2016.