Sasha Was Here

by Kahli Scott

Sasha sits on the roof of the hut.

The sun is lowering into the brown hills behind him, the sky kumara and gold. A trick of the light seems to form a halo around his head, which he’d fucking love, I reckon.

The girls are pleading at him to be careful. The guys are egging him on. He shimmies his shoulders to the beats pulsing out of someone’s portable speaker – always on show. Then he pretends to ready himself for a dive off the edge. He stops at the last minute, laughs at the girls who screamed at him not to. Then he just sits there, watching the sun sink, scratching something into the roof with his left hand.

Truth be told, I’ve never been a big fan of the guy.

We don’t hang out one on one. We just happen to have the same friends. And I’ll always be up for a weekend in the hills – surrounded by golden tussocks and big sky, the beers cracking, the burgers sizzling – no matter who we’re there to celebrate.

When we cut his birthday cake topped with thirty crooked candles after dinner, someone who’s had one too many beers decides to give an impassioned speech about the legend that is Alexander ‘Sasha’ Veriga. “Larger than life” is what they say. I’ve never liked that phrase. I’ve always thought that if you’re too large for something – clothes, shoes, the small town you grew up in – you should move on. And leave some room for the rest of us.

It becomes an annual tradition, going to the hut for Sasha’s birthday. The second year, it rains the whole weekend, and we end up cramped elbow-to-elbow at the big table inside, sipping liquor for warmth instead of beer. We play a card game called Sasha’s Rummy, which has a dozen elaborate twists on the original that all seem rigged to help Sasha win. The liquor dulls my senses and I think my eyerolls are subtle, until one of the girls pulls me aside to kindly tell me I should stop being such an asshole to the birthday boy.

I somehow still get an invite to the third edition, Sasha’s thirty-second spin around the sun. We’re tamer this year, and I can’t tell if we’re growing up or getting tired or both. I emerge from the long-drop toilet after most people have gone to bed to find Sasha right there, sitting at the picnic table outside the hut, alone.

“You don’t like me much, hey?” he says.

“What makes you think that?” I ask.

Sasha shrugs and keeps peeling the label off his beer bottle. “I can just tell.”

He’s been quieter this year, I’ve noticed. Funnily enough, I’ve liked him more than I ever have before.

“Well,” I say. “I’m here, aren’t I? For your birthday.”

“Don’t worry. Next year, I’ll save you the hassle.”

I bristle.

“Fair enough,” I say. “If you don’t want me to come anymore, I won’t come.”

Sasha looks around us, as if checking we’re alone, and then up at the stars.

“Actually, I have something I need to tell someone,” he says. “And I figure, seeing as you don’t like me, you’re the best choice.”

Sasha sits on the roof of the hut.

We all agree that we can see him up there. That a trick of the light seems to form a halo around his head, which he’d fucking love, we reckon.

He’s not actually there, of course. He’ll never be there again. Or maybe he’ll always be there. It’s hard to say.

As the sun lowers, we take out the birthday cake. There’s a quick argument about whether we add the thirty-third candle or not. Has he really aged another year, or will he eternally be thirty-two? One of the girls starts crying then, so we shut up and light the extra candle.

Later, during the last breaths of twilight, I hoist myself up onto the roof of the hut. It’s high up here, but God, it’s a beautiful view. I slide myself along until I’m sitting in the middle, and that’s when I see it. Scratched into the roof are three crooked words that make me roll the sting out of my eyes, because of course he always found a way to make his mark.

— Trustees' Choice, Open category, Anna-Marie Chin Architects Writing Competition 2023.