Full back piece, water and fire split, three views

I nearly didn't come to the reunion, but I found the old school atlas you left in my bag in 1998, and the harbour map on the back page still has your handwriting: "Fire on the left, water on the right, and don't let either one win." I thought you'd want it back before Saturday, since you'll be standing by the trophy cabinet pretending you don't remember how we split the sea and the sky between us that summer.

We were fifteen and certain. The quarry was blue as a bruise at midday and the cliff road ran hot with gorse. You painted the dragon on the sea wall in Mum's leftover emulsion, all red tongue and gold scales, and I did the waves with a dustpan of water and a wet brush, because I said something that big needed drowning. Mr Pryce caught us at dusk, shouted that the council would have us both, then stood there a long time looking at the two halves meeting in the middle, the sun coming up over the wall as if it had been told to.

I still think about that sun. It was the only thing we agreed on.

So bring the atlas. Stand next to me at the buffet and we can decide who gets the fire this time. I'll bring the paint, you bring the bucket, and we'll see which of us gets soaked first.

Love, Tess