59 292
Not Near London
59
in naughty substances,
probably.
Or
people
smuggling. Or eating dope
burgers. Or rutting in
Rutland. The train is rolling
her head from side to side
as if she is saying No No
No to everything that is
coming at her and nothing
can stop it while her finger
is caught in the dial of the
old-fashioned telephone
and it will not rotate
because it is ringing and
she wakes up wondering
where she is, just for a
flash, to see Jasper texting
and his lips pouted in
concentration like he is
cooling down hot soup or
literally blowing his own
tiny weeny trumpet.
Toot toot.
He’s texting her. That’s
what he’s doing. Texting
the bitch three rows up.
She leans against his
shoulder and cuddles up
to get a glimpse. Oh. She’s
overthinking again. He’s
just playing his zombie
apocalypse game, thumbs
flashing. Little boy in his
bedroom. Cute.
Now the train is slowing
again, almost stopped, like
it’s crossing a suspension
bridge that’s a single link
away from collapsing.
Strike out north over the
Humber. She looks into
the darkness and what
else she’ll show in the
gallery just drops into her
head. It would have to be
in the next room. Because
it’s a big posh gallery, not
a vacant corner store in
Donny or Rotherham or
somewhere.
Icebergs!
Massive. Taken off the
net, treated in Photoshop.
Really bleached out and
deep-grained
icebergs.
And in the final room
it’ll be her own photo,
repeated. Massive.
The train is going to crash.