I usually write about autumn in October but this year, even though autumn is finally here, in the difference in the air itself, in the wetness of the air, in the russet twilight, I won’t write about it. Things are changing. I can’t spend my life looking back. Always staring into myself like Narcissus into a lake, although actively listening for Echo, re-working things that float around in my own head, taking twigs of experience and twisting them into some kind of wicker metaphor for something that could be universal. I should write a story about what is going to happen, or what is happening right now in this moment, unravelling at the speed of an eye over text. That’s what I should write. Even using ‘should’ begins to play into the past tense, but maybe doubt is the mood of the present tense, maybe ‘am’ has embiggened its role in our tensual state. No, I think I’m wrong. ‘Should’ is the moment before the present. But what can you say about the present? I am writing this. I am writing this to you. You are reading this. You are thinking, what will happen at the end of this sentence? Or maybe I am thinking that and in thinking that I reach the end of the sentence. Become the moment between the present and the future. Where are some characters to accompany us together riding this to the end, we’re both here, but is there anyone else?
trains
March: If I told you
People, shivering inside thick coats, bunched in couples and small groups around red formica high tables. The train station café was cold. Cold enough that Melly could see the wetness of her breath. Cold enough that Lou curled her fingers inside her gloves, letting the knitted fingers flap free. She lifted her paper coffee cup with her fists. Melly wore her scarf wrapped three or four times anaconda-like round her neck. Her woollen cap was pulled down over her forehead. Only her eyes and flushed red cheeks were visible to Lou. The rest of the space between Melly’s cap and scarf was filled with frenzied red hair.
Melly watched bursts of steam gather around Lou’s chapped lips as Lou sipped the coffee. Lou didn’t own a hat. She kept her hood up. The hood framed her face with a ring of fake fur.
‘This cold is hellish,’ Lou said, breaking the ice.
‘I wish I were dead,’ Melly said, re-freezing the space between them.
