nothing of sadness. Who probably believes that books can offer better worlds.
The last book I managed to finish was a children’s story someone left on the
bus. It was called ‘The crocodile’s birthday party’. Many animals came to the
party, all of them dressed in fine clothes. There were songs, cake, and games.
Then the crocodile ate his guests. Hungrily and with as much pleasure as she
is sucking his mouth.
It will be 32 miles to Stockton. Half an hour through rain. And why did she?
How could she? Maybe she thinks they’ll do new things together, things that
don’t connect with her past. They will go bowling; they will go camping; they
will run through flower-filled meadows in the glorious now. But in a month,
or year, she’ll realise: remission is not health.
The rain falls faster, heavier; it feels like we’re submerged. Outside is a
smeared grey; only the road seems solid. True and straight and sure of
purpose. On and on it goes.
Briefly— perhaps for air —their mouths disengage. Then she starts to speak.
At first he smiles, but then his eyes start jerking sideways. Perhaps she’s
saying she’s unhappy. That she’s so alone. Whatever she’s saying, it’s
heartfelt and true, and he is unprepared. He leans back, not far, but still the
point is made. He has refused her trust.
Number of miles to Stockton: 20. He is looking out the window; she stares at
the floor.
If only he’d touch her head or shoulder. That is all it would take. Then she’d
lift her head and I’d say, “It’s alright. Please go on.”
I drive the bus. The rain falls hard. Other vehicles approach or retreat and I
cannot see people in them. It’s like when I’m driving at night: sometimes,
when I’m very tired, I wonder if we’re dead. If there was some great accident
we have all forgotten.