recycling my life bit by bit. i don’t know what else to do. also: writing is damn hard. why is it so hard, folks?
one thing i’m proud of: under 300 words. yay.
We ran for the bus – me slipping on my soles, you hoisting your bag, our breaths burning spurts, visible. White streets slid by my window seat, all muffled and disguised. You stood: bag on shoulder, hand on the strap, already on your way. Then the metro pushing, jostling, North Face, Canada Goose, wet dripping, steam. Inside, we looked at each other again.
“Fais pas ca” you said. I’d been frowning, and so then I shrugged, which I knew you didn’t like either. Next, the length of the train hiccoughed, shuddered and halted, lights off, throwing me against your arm, through the interphone a “Mon Dieu” cut short by a scramble of static. The crowd murmured, flattened against the locked doors. Your arm went around me. Your coat smelled of wind, woody smoke, and of you. The lights came back onto common silence, people peeked at their cellphones.
“Attention : un accident entre les stations Rosemont et Laurier cause une interruption de service sur la ligne orange. Merci de votre comprehension.” Statistics say it happens 4-5 times a month. Just one in three die. I opened my eyes into your sleeve and moved away. The train was pulled into the station, the doors still closed against the platform crowd. I imagined the driver trying to get up and out of the car, his feet going mushy under him. It happens. They train you to expect it, but when it comes it’s still shattering.
“I have half an hour. I’ll take a taxi.”
“You’re late for work.”
“Oh, don’t – “ you started. “You know I wish I could – “. You raised your hand to my face, I watched you frozen in anticipation, I saw it coming, the heartbreaking split second – I saw you remember again.