Catacombs

‘There are catacombs down there,’ he tells me, pointing to the concrete slabs of the market floor. ‘Caves.’

He grew up near the river, used to scramble along its banks with his friends and slip into the cool darkness, one cave leading to another, another; their torch dancing its damp light over hewn stone.

‘And then later,’ he says, ‘When I was a teenager, we’d take girls down there.’ He smiles and I laugh and we both remember our own versions of dark corners, warm skin.

Inspired by a conversation with Keith at Stockport Market’s Vintage Village

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