Back on the bus. Bored. Barely breathing. Air so cold and heavy – wet velvet on my lungs.
Beyond the spattered windowpane I spy him – spy on him – standing at the cash machine, hunched over in oversized rain gear, getting money for tonight – for Friday night. Big night. Plans. Dreams. Rainy daydreams. Rubbish.
I’m suffering from Prolonged Transition Trauma. My sense of the surreal is dwarfed by irony and sarcasm and drenched in the fear that it will never ever end. I’ve entered Dante’s first circle of hell. Or maybe it’s Sister Mary Josephine’s depiction of Purgatory. Whose sins I am being called to atone?
I thought this was a mistake. Shows how wrong you can be.