Nural

The train was twenty minutes late. In her bag she had nothing but a razor, a hair dryer and a map. The map, she decided, was useless, and, using the razor, she cut it into strips which she hung from her hips to create a makeshift skirt. Perhaps the train would be twenty minutes late, but she would she wouldn't be naked for a minute longer.

She was the only one on the platform, still she felt an intense sensation that she would be snuck up upon and thrown onto the tracks. The wind blew the aluminium Platform 1 sign, and the clock struck 9:50 – thirty minutes.

She shuffled her feet and popped her by now flavourless gum. It began to rain and she had no umbrella.

She sang the words to her favourite song – the song that she sang with her best friend at home. She remembered the day they found an old television on the side of the street and, using an old pull wagon and a baseball bat, they were able to drag it to the parking lot of the school on the hill and smash it – they took turns.

Forty minutes – she licked her lips. She hadn’t eaten. Chicken, gravy, roast potatoes, don’t mind if I do, thank you, Father, will you please pass the peas? The protruding light brought her back to the cold dark Platform 1. The train – it didn’t stop. It was empty. She knelt behind a bush and relieved herself.

They rolled out of the car in one swift movement. He carried her up the stairs and they lay on his futon. He kissed her neck, and, despite being afraid, she took off her shirt. She recalled his warmth, and the feeling of her feet against his sheets.

She sat down to wait, but the train never came, and her hair never dried.

by Conor Jameson

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