The old gods

It's a grey day. Across the road a crooked man scurries along like a raindrop running down a window pane. I recognise him from a past we both once shared. I pull the brakes on the rig. A thousand snakes hiss at me in indignation.

"Hey, Anansi," I call from the cab. He looks sideways at me but keeps on going. His legs rattle. I call again.

"My name's Anatole," he calls back, "Leave me alone."

"You're Anansi. I'd recognise you anywhere."

He pauses, looks first left and then right, then scuttles hunch-backed over the road.

"Keep your voice down," he says.

I open the door and he climbs in. Steam rises from his head in the warmth of the cab.

"So, how are things?" I ask.

"I'm doing fine. Fine. That's why I don't need you shouting...shouting that name across the street at me."

"I just wanted to reminisce. I haven't seen you for ages."

"I'm not Anansi any more, I'm Anatole. And I'm not a spider-god any more, I'm a chartered surveyor. That's why you haven't seen me for ages."

"I know, I know. I was just thinking, remember the old days? The fun we had? I thought maybe we could--"

"No, I don't remember the old days," he says, "At least, I'm trying not to. I try to keep my mind on my job."

"I'm sorry. It's this weather. It just got me thinking, is all."

"Listen: you're not Thor, you're Tony. You're a truck driver. Those days are over now. Just let it go."

He gets out of the cab. Rivulets of water stream down the window as he shuts the door firmly behind him. Lightning flashes a photograph of him at me - black-and-white, his collar turned up and his hat pulled down low - and moments later a snap of thunder rolls across the sky.

It makes me feel a little hollow.