“I assure you, I’m not gonna wait.” – she says
“The next train is in forty minutes. I’ll be home at eight, right?”
He grunts into his fist,
“If you park up & wait, I’ll see you.” – she says
Fingers dancing wild across the face of a tiny electric friend
nesting in the palm of her hand. The sound of her nails, the rattle
of her ring, drives me crazy in the glow of a pink sun.
Predictive text wants to write ‘sin’, I grin, remembering.
A right city-geezer purses his lips, nods his head, talking football,
in a clean white shirt, watches the world slip into the past, frozen
wonderland. The woman with the crazy rattle finger prods the face of
her electric familiar, frantic. Strokes a chin, receives responses,
winces, mutters, sighs. The football pundits revel in the luxury of
distance, submerged in psychology, formations, tactics, the comfort
“They had numbers on their backs, but they could’ve played anywhere!”
A couple kiss.
The tapping woman moans imperceptibly, repeatedly touching her lips.
Words form in her breath. Her tiny moans repeat into rhythms.
She stands to leave. I remain seated. She dresses.
We haven’t arrived yet.