My Heroine Pretend
There was a disagreement on the train. Man, mole on forehead, staring into his dog-haired wife/girlfriend/sister’s clumpy eyes. Fountains of stray hairs fail over her foundation. It’s not fair to call it a face. Water, yes. She needs more water.
‘There aren’t any reservations. We’re not moving.’
She said. He looked like he always did. Tired of growing old. Gripping onto everything nothing, because.
‘We’re not moving.’
But he can speak.
Reservation lady. It’s fair to say that she was portly. Red lattice jumper, thinking about latticed sausage and liver pie. And we exchanged several glances. And people might call that love, in another setting. But the modern-day Rosa Parks lovers’ refusal sponged her eyes. She was dry. Water. She needed more water.
And I sat in my red train seat, fantasising about having tea with Julien Soren. Trying to catch the eye of a fat woman. Trying to make traveling to Somerset exciting.
There was a poster in Leamington station. The wonders of the South West. It said. The wonders. The windows here are the same as everywhere. Rain like acne. Perhaps it’ll grow old. Perhaps the windows will crease. Perhaps I will see Somerset through a distorted lens. Perhaps it will be magic.
And I will disappear.
And reappear, again, in New York.
Or Oslo. Probably Oslo.
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