Dating isn't easy. Finding love is harder. But being a Delaney makes it all a thousand times worse because let's face it, with parents like theirs, the NextGen never stood a chance.
11 short stories following the disastrous love lives of:
Seraphina...
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I tend to work at night because while everyone else is asleep, I have six or seven hours alone, just me and the photographs; a chance to live with my ideas and remind myself of what beauty is out there. I can't live without this time; it's like air and I need it to breathe.
Only, I haven't been able to work at night, alone, for the past few days. For reasons that I cannot explain- because they're inexplicable to me- when I was here alone, I missed Bronwen's company.
That's why I invited her to my studio again today. Even though she doesn't say anything while she's here, unless I ask her a question, her presence soothes me.
Since she arrived hours ago, she's been sitting in the corner on an uncomfortable stool, reading a book. The title is Bite the Bullet. I don't know what it's about but why would anyone want to bite a bullet? It seems like a stupid thing to bite. What would it accomplish? You can't dent the bullet. It's made of metal. And you can't eat it. I mean, you could swallow it but why would you?
"It's a thriller about a man and a woman who go on the run together." Bronwen's voice quietly fills the silence. "You were staring at the book and you were frowning."
"But why would anyone want to call it Bite the Bullet?"
Bronwen smiles as she closes the book, her thumb finger holding the page. "I haven't reached the part of the book that explains the title yet. But it's idiomatic. To get something over with because it is inevitable."
"I hate idiomatic phrases. They don't make sense."
"I think that's the point. But if you think the English ones are silly, wait until you hear some of the Welsh ones."
I stare at her, waiting for her to tell me one of the Welsh ones. It's always amazed me that she can speak Welsh; it's such a strange yet beautiful language. Sometimes, it sounds harsh with lots of guttural sounds. Not too dissimilar to German. And then, at other times, it sounds so melodic and peaceful and calming. I've photographed Bronwen's mother, Nia Llewelyn, multiple times and she's tried to teach me some phrases but I haven't grasped many words. My best effort is to say pili pala. If only because you say it exactly as it looks.
"You're not saying any of the Welsh ones."
"Sorry, did you want me to?" I nod in response. I quickly hit save on the photo that I'm working on before turning to her, giving her my full attention. "One of my favourites is mynd dros ben llestri. The English equivalent is to go over the top. But literally translated? To go over the dishes."
I frown. "Dishes. Like dishes in the sink?"
"Then, to give up is rhoi'r ffidil yn y tô. Put the violin in the attic. I think that one kind of makes sense." I shake my head. No, it doesn't make sense. "Oh, another good one is the Welsh version of raining cats and dogs. Bwrw hen wragedd a ffyn. Raining old ladies and sticks."
