motions

The shopping centre seems vacant and abandoned except for its corridor lights, shining onto the street through the glass walls of Emotion, the old beauty shop, dark and empty now.

At the bus stop there last night, darkly in the shadows of footprints in the snow a pile of shit spread. People busy with their phones, shuffling in line, were walking it into the buses.

Crowded onto a bus, the smell grew stronger; a slick couple came to sit. Silent, he waited, she swayed, steadying herself on the grab-rail. Something dark in patches stuck to her fingers and hands.

Sitting down across the aisle she seemed in shock, distressed, confused. Her hands were cut. She clutched her phone, blood dripping occasionally into her lap.

They sat still. I offered tissues, held some out, he stared. Did they not understand. Silently she took them in a bunch. Returning to her phone she tapped it once or twice.

Still without a word she put the tissues down, onto the seat in front of her. Distractedly, blood dripping onto the floor she dabbed at her mottled hands then picked up her phone.

At Pallo the couple got up and left the bus without word or gesture. Her blood now brown remained, smeared, scuffed and carried to the doors by their seats.

At the end of the line, as best I could, alone I told the driver of the blood. He didn't reply, but went back to see. He didn't say anything. I wished him well; he didn't reply.

I went my way home. It had snowed; that was nice, my path now not covered with those dark sheets of ice.

◄   index page