The Drive Home

I’d got out of the car early. The bus stop was only over the road so it was no trouble, after all. I stood in my flip-flops aware of the irony, the light contact of the rain clinging to my flawed skin, my toenails bandaged in orange wrappings which smelled faintly of insulin and cheap acetone… I shouldn’t get them wet, not today. Though my feet were cold the contemptuous lolling of my socks within my messenger bag reminded me of how very little time I’d had to put them on. I’d got out of the car early. My monkey key ring nestled his face into the outside of my bag, the polyester nightmare of stitches and unoriginality, an act I’m sure of wanting to keep dry and not of being hooked on in the wrong direction in the first place. We were in and out too quickly, of the doctors, and the car. All of a sudden I was aware of my vulnerability, in my flip-flops, in the middle of the road; car tyres, soft, pushing my exposed bones into the hard concrete. I had watched the car drive away, a dentists appointment in forty five minutes made in less than ten. I’d chased after you earlier yelling that a coffee would be fine, if not wonderful, but it would make me late. Full milk and a teaspoon of sweetener, a world away from my first experience of real coffee, a bitterly harsh cup of gloop pushed into the hands of a ten-year-old at a sofa specialists. Don’t spill it. It would be years before I would trust anyone else to hand me a cup of coffee again, if it wasn’t you. I’d chased after you yelling that it would make me late, but I’d got out of the car early.

It mattered something less because the woman sat in the back seat did not know who I was. I was aware of the coincidental nature of the rain as I stood in the middle of the road, lowering my eyes to the floor in an attempt to keep them dry. My socks occupied the space in my bag next to the Soft Fruits which I couldn’t bear to place in my mouth, afraid I might find myself on holiday, the walls of the caravan encapsulated by the scent of cupcakes and swing ball, the sun setting outside the plastic window beneath the pink horizon.  My phone rang and I answered it, gasping; falling stupidly, dramatically to my knees, dampening my ludicrous bandages with rain and oil from the wet tarmac. It wasn’t that it mattered something more in the middle of the road- socks, monkeys and Soft Fruits sprawled on the ground in front of me- it just broke my heart so when you remembered my name.

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About Anna

Author of the Insanity Aquarium. Current fears include time as a concept, the squishiness of my right eyeball, and not being able to open this jar.
This entry was posted in Darkness and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to The Drive Home

  1. Anne Schilde says:

    That one’s been tugging at me lately, a large part of why I’ve been so absent. I wonder if I got out of the car a little early, would anyone remember my name?

    It was so nice to come back and find you’d written so much! ♥

    Like

    • Anna says:

      It’s been pulling at my face too, and my feet, and my lungs- and I just haven’t been able to write anything else. I’m so glad you’re back, I’ve missed you!

      Like

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