56 292
Adam Thorpe
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a whisper. You can’t do a
falsetto, whispering.
‘Jasper!’ She slaps him on
the thigh as he laughs, the
rest of the train frowning
and muttering (or so she
imagines again, she can’t
see them: it is like a vintage
film in her imagination,
the random people all
pretending to be Muggles
with rolled-up umbrellas
and hats and ugly coats.
Except for one, knitting,
with a little grin). ‘I don’t
like your fantasy, hey.’
‘Oh, c’mon, c’mon.’
‘What, c’mon?’
‘Chill the fuck out, Suze.’
A proper snarl. And he is
glaring at her as if she’s his
enemy. He likes making
enemies because he says
it makes life more amusing
and if you are stressed
you can instantly take it
out on someone. Crabs in
a bucket, the art world.
She’s just gonna be nice
to
everyone
. Especially
foreigners.
She is clinging to his woolly
jumper’s sleeve. Then
his fox eyes switch to the
window, past her own face.
She follows the glance,
heart still pounding in
shock, smelling his sleeve
under her fingers: honey
and marker ink and dope
over a sour mustiness
like her gran’s attic or old
cake or her mum’s stale
cinnamon biscuits in a tin.
How did it get dark? Like, is
the day on a switch now?
Progress! He isn’t looking
outside, he is looking
at himself, reflected, a
bit skeletal in the glare.
Surprise surprise.
She reallymissesGran right
at this moment, who’d
always be hunched over
her cigarette, coughing
and cackling, glass of