Page 48 of The Second Chance Bus Stop
‘Right—colours. A better value for the money. No problem.’ Zara does a quick stroll around the shop floor whilst I stand there, the bright lights overhead burning my skin. I wrap my scarf around my shoulders trying to block out the sensation.
‘Look at this!’ Zara yells. ‘I’ve counted five colours, and although I would say the addition of purple would really lift it to the next level, I reckon it’s good value for money and that we should get it. What do you think?’
I look at the garment which has an Aztec pattern in orange and red tones with green, black and white added in. It looks a bit like a rug, but I’d be able to find it on the hooks by the door. No risk of it blending into a black hole.
‘Excellent,’ I say. When I get to the till I ask, ‘Can I wearit now, please?’ I walk through the shop feeling very prepared for winter indeed, and the feeling lasts the drive and all the way home. When Zara unlocks the front door I squeeze her free hand.
‘Thank you. Thank you for preparing me for winter.’
Sophia
Jönköping
I have been sleeping better since our sheep-spotting outing. I filled my camera roll with forty-eight images of sheep. We first found a field just outside town with white, fluffy sheep but realised we couldn’t get close enough, so we made another attempt at a city farm where two sheep lived with a goat and a donkey and I could spend a considerable amount of time petting them all and taking the pictures I needed. It worked, and I’m a genius.
I know I have to visit my parents, and Iwantto visit my parents but it’s like booking a hair appointment—it’s lovely once it’s done and you feel all new and glossy and refreshed, and don’t have to think about it for another three months. But calling to book it gets put off for weeks. I decide to get it done.
Me:How about I come over tomorrow evening?
Mum:Can’t wait.
Mum starts listing the food courses she’ll be making, and I know I’ll be having a bowl of cereal before we leave, as there’s nothing on the menu I can eat.
I was surprised when Blade asked if he could come with me and even more surprised when I heard a voice that sounded a lot like mine saying ‘yes’.
‘Are you a fan of strained silences interrupted by the occasional “Pass the salt” or “You’re a disappointment we’ll never recover from, even if we reach the ripe age of one hundred”?’
‘It can’t be that bad.’
I just shrug. Itisthat bad.
‘Remember that there’ll be three courses, and the fork on the left is for the first dish, then you work your way in.’
‘Soph, I’ve been to a dinner party before.’
‘And you need to take your shoes off because Mum cannot stand the idea of dirt in the house.’
‘It’s going to be fine.’
Now on our way with no time to come up with a last-minute excuse, I wonder what I was thinking. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the intersection that signals my parents’ street.
‘Next right,’ I instruct Blade, not taking my eyes off him.
‘There’ I say and point. ‘The house on the left. With the dark green front door.’
We park on the empty, lifeless street outside my childhood home and an automatic light flickers on along the walkway through the front garden when we step onto it.
I give Blade one more glance. He looks... good. Some part of me feels proud that someone like him would come with me. Even if it’s not technically a date, he is herewithme. He has finally dropped the beanie, and his soft-looking curls are delivering perfect, flowy movement and volume. They’re begging me to run my fingers through them. As a stim, ofcourse. A sensory stim, because hair like that would feelverygood on my fingers. No other reason.
I wipe my feet four times, then step back another time and wipe them again.No mud. No dirt. No germs.Blade wipes them once. And then I ring the bell.
My mother opens the door, as is the standard. My father will have been shooed off the sofa twenty minutes ago and chased off for a shower and a change of clothes. I can see the familiar scene in front of me.Twenty minutes! TV off! Seriously, Harald? Yes, yes, it is only your lastborn child but a dinner table is a dinner table. Ten minutes! Where is the remote? There—off.
We take our shoes off by the door and place sock-clad feet on the shiny, newly washed wooden floor.
My mum is an herb, perhaps the ever so popularOcimum basilicum—basil. It has plenty of complex flavours and spends a lot of time in the kitchen. The herb can also make a ball of dough or even some cheese look fancy. She wears a wrap dress and her short blonde hair looks like she’s just had her roots done.
‘Hello, darling.’
