Junction 19 By Beth McGann

From under the table he can see half-shoes and a jacket. Sometimes he feels grubby but can never seem to get clean. He is busy twisting all his bad thoughts into little knots of paper. In the kitchen someone is weighing things on the scales. He lives in a house full of cupboards. Outside are bus stops and rain. A kid who could have been his friend rides past on his bike. Shapes expand, something is eating up the air. A headlamp comes under his table, the man he has to call dad cuts the engine and waits to go inside. He is fucking sick of all the messing about. The bad-tempered man with the creaky shoes has the receiver to his ear. Upstairs, quiet, her mascara has run. A strand of hair is wet against the tiles. Just before, a small animal look had hung down over her face. After a while, a siren calls her body home. In some other life they might have been lovers.

Copyright ©  Beth McGann 2008

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