Monthly Archives: June 2012

A transitory meet-cute

The tube carriage is close to empty when I finish my book; an old couple sit at the far end, a man with a duffle bag stands in the centre well. There is also a girl sitting opposite me, reading as I am.

I close the final page of my book and as I do I see the girl close her book as well. She looks up, stares ahead for a second, lost in thought, then puts the novel on her lap and places both hands on top of it in a final, concluding flourish.

‘Done?’ She asks, pointing at the book I’m holding.

‘Yes.’

‘Me too.’ She smiles lazily. ‘How was it for you?’

The girl is Asian, or at least part Asian, dressed in a loose fitting vest and black jeans. Her hair is long, tied up loosely behind her. Her ears are pierced.

‘Good’ I say. ‘You want to read it?’

‘What is it?’

I pass her the book and she reads the back cover.

‘Sounds good,’ she says.

‘It is.’

She passes her book to me and I take it. I read the back cover.

‘How is it?’

‘It will make you cry.’

‘You’re not crying’ I say.

‘I don’t cry easy.’

She smiles again, then leans forward.

‘Have you heard of a ‘meet-cute’?’ she asks.

‘Yes’, I say.

‘This is it.’ She says, ‘This is one. Two strangers finish their books at the same time, in the same carriage of the same tube. They talk. They swap books. They promise to meet again in one month’s time, to the hour, to the minute.’

‘You want to swap books?’ I ask.

‘Yes.’

The tube is slowing, the lights of the stations flashing through the carriage windows. She stands, gathers her bag up, still with my book held in her hands.

‘Sure,’ I say, ‘Okay’.

She puts the book in her bag.

‘Thanks.’

She points her hand towards the book I’m now holding, ‘That one’s good. Enjoy it.’

‘I will.’ I say.

The doors hiss open and she moves towards them.

‘And in a month’s time we meet again?’

‘Possibly.’ She  says, ‘Possibly.’

As she walks past the window  I turn my head to follow her, and then the train pulls off and the crowds seem to grow on the station and when I search for her she has already disappeared in the press of bodies.

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Hangover

This is a reworking of an earlier piece.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Wasps buzz and tumble over each other deep between my eyes. Light stings, sound sickens. I bury my head; try to suffocate the wasps, try to starve them of air, starve them of life.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Again.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The beat of blood pulsing though my veins echoes and warps, spills out of synch until the moment I feel the beat and the moment I hear the sound it makes are far enough apart that the world seems tipped sideways.

Outside my window, low down on the street people shout at each other. I can smell the cotton fibres of the sheet in my nose.

My eyes crack open and when the do the wasps, unsettled, beat their wings. The darkened room, tipped sideways and seen through black flashes of lightening, is still. An empty glass of water, the glass streaked with fingerprints, sits on the bed side table. A crack of light knifes through the tight drawn curtains, flashes off a mirror. Dust motes drift across the room, blaze like a meteor in the light, vanish. The room smells cold.

In the bathroom my skin oxidises, decays in the air. My throat tightens and I gag. Above the sink the small circular mirror is marked with lime scale but when I stare in to it I don’t see death, only two bloodshot eyes ringed with black, surrounded by pale wax skin pulled tight across the scaffolding below.

The water splashes in the porcelain basin, fills the dirty glass. I breathe the cold smell of ammonia through my nostrils.

I drink, and immediately afterwards am sick.

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Filed under Creative writing