Departure
You’re being scrutinised by a woman in the carriage. She’s wearing a mauve blouse; there are dark rings around each armpit. Flushed neck fat trembles as the rest of her soft body subtly bends and leans. It’s a slow dance. You observe for a while – she tries to avoid your stare by feigning an unconvincing sleep. Her lipstick is a youthful cerise. She is very solid.
You’re reading an erotic novel. There’s no sex. The book is erotic only because it’s relating to or affecting the senses; it’s changing your perception for a moment. You’ve always found it difficult to find the right combination of words. When you do find them, they are more soothing than any numbing medication.
You’re close to your destination. You think it’ll be a shame to disembark after experiencing such temporary calm. When the train slows, your colour wheel moves back to blue again – you suffer any change in hue through your wrists and hands which are heavy with a cosmic kind of lethargy. After the announcement, you respond slowly because to cling onto the last seconds of relief feels salacious.
You reach under your seat for your bag and the view alters. Across the way – beneath her pencil skirt – you see bulbous veins on grey dappled calves. From this angle she is half-dead, already in some pathology lab to be analysed. Her exposed toes bring to mind mismatched fingers from other people’s hands. You cringe at the thought of someone sucking them. You can imagine the smell of dead skin saliva.
By the time the doors prise apart like unwilling thighs, everything is decaying; even the light Autumnal wind is sour from the breath of purposeful passengers who all appear to know where they are going.
Lauren Vevers is a writer based in the North East of England. Her work has been published/is forthcoming on Hobart, The Cadaverine and Electric Cereal. Twitter: @LaurenVevers Blog: www.thebellinijar.com