His fingernail scratched down the page.

“Threeee, twooo, eeeight, ssseevvven”.

He uttered in a very precise patronising tone, and then closed the book.

“Here’s a map” he added by way of a token consolation.

The map a faded copy of a thousand copies YOU ARE HERE just discernable.

“Three, two, eight, seven is down at the bottom left hand side” he called as I left the office.

She was just a number in a book now, 3287, just a number.

She was a beauty, a green-eyed black haired beauty, a face carved from ivory.

I remember the last day I saw her all those years ago.

A late October morning, bright blue sky, a sharp blinding sun.

She walks like a cheetah when she spies my approach.

A smile as bright as the blue sky, her breath hangs like smoke in the cold air.

Emerald eyes flash in the morning sun.

She was wearing her favourite red tartan skirt, her long legs encased in navy blue.

A camel coloured polo neck sweater completes the look.

Her flowing black hair held in check with a blue beret, blue as the morning sky on that October day.

Her shoes always clicked a dance as she walked.

So proud, so Roman, so Parisian, so very chic, so all the cliché’s spoken.

I could imagine her elsewhere, somewhere more exotic, somewhere out of this world.

Somewhere out of the drab environment, she lived in.

She was class, a classic, ahead of her time, a timeless beauty.

She glided towards me, my dream, my love.

We kissed and melted together on that cold October morn.

3287 the head stone said.

A name erased, smoothed away with time.

3287 that’s all it said.

Just a number in a book of plots.

No one visits I was told.

She took her own life I was told.

How did it happen.

No one told.

I close my eyes and hear the sound of clicking shoes.

A smile as bright as the blue sky, her breath like smoke in the cold air.

3287………3287……………….. my black haired beauty…………..

I know your name, my 3287, I know your name…………………….

                              --------------------------------------

Plot 3287 ( blue beret )

Footsteps crunch on the gravel, a young  girl stands with flowers in her hand.

'Who are you'? she asks.

'I’m just passing…….. I stopped to look around……… I’m looking for a number'

'Perhaps its over there'   she points.

We stand in silence.

'The flowers are nice'    I say.

'For my mother'    she whispers.

As she kneels down I notice she was wearing a faded blue beret……………

ScoZen