<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Departure<\/strong><\/p>\n 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\u2019s a slow dance. You observe for a while \u2013 she tries to avoid your stare by feigning an unconvincing sleep. Her lipstick is a youthful cerise.\u00a0 She is very solid. <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n
\nYou\u2019re reading an erotic novel. There’s no sex. The book is erotic only because it\u2019s relating to or affecting the senses; it\u2019s changing your perception for a moment. You\u2019ve always found it difficult to find the right combination of words. When you do find them, they are more soothing than any numbing medication.
\nYou’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 \u2013 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.
\nYou reach under your seat for your bag and the view alters. Across the way \u2013 beneath her pencil skirt \u2013 you see bulbous veins on grey dappled calves.\u00a0 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\u2019s hands. You cringe at the thought of someone sucking them. You can imagine the smell of dead skin saliva.
\nBy 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.<\/p>\n