Too Late To Call By Sarah Ann Watts

The bus pulls out of the station. I check my watch - I am not too late. I close my eyes, pretend to sleep. The witching hour is yet to come. I told you I would be home by midnight. You like to know where I am. I tell you I can protect myself and you shake your head in doubt. 'Be careful. It isn't the same world.' I laugh at your fears and paint my lips and smile. Sitting here, I begin to wonder if you were right. I am not alone - there are people all around me, faces pallid in the dingy glare. The bus lurches its way through the emptying streets. We pass oases of light, places where music beats beneath the surface and scantily clad revelers spill out onto the pavement.

I pull out my phone to call you and I hear my voice echo in the metallic shell of the bus. People are too weary to talk or else have nothing to say. Each of us draws our privacy around us like a screen. My voice breaks that silent complicity and I realize everyone is listening as I tell you where I am and where I am going.

You tell me again to be careful and I am furious at my own stupidity. I steal a look at the woman behind me. Her face looks harsh and drawn, lit in planes of shadow. Maybe she is merely tired as I am but I feel her eyes on the back of my neck and I wonder if she is reading the message I send, covering my mistake. My clothes are wrong, too dark, too formal and too old.

I am conspicuous. When I look up I see a man with a grey face who sits opposite. He is staring at me and there is that glimmer of recognition. Suddenly I feel like I am wearing no clothes at all - as if he can see right through me. I look away as if I am afraid and focus on the blank glass of the window as we travel out of town. At each stop the bus sheds passengers. They scurry away into the night. The grey man is still there. Mine is the last stop. I wonder what will happen when everyone else has gone.

The bus takes its slow heavy route, winding through the streets. As it halts the grey man pulls himself to his feet. I am pleased to see the back of him and let out my breath slowly as his form recedes into shadow. Too close for comfort. The bus is lighter now and gathers speed. The driver asks again where I am going and misses out the last pointless loop on his route. It means I will reach my destination sooner than I expect and I wonder what I will do if you are not there to meet me. It is too late to call - you are already on your way. We pull in to the shelter and the doors hiss open.

I lurch and fumble my way out into the gloom. The streetlights spill orange light on the car park. I remember the shops never close- there are still people about. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust and I feel a touch on my arm. I turn, expecting to see you and lift my face for your kiss. Your eyes are grey in this light. The bus driver closes the doors and pulls away. It is just you and me.

Comments System Prototype Version 1.0 by Mo

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