Page 6 of The Second Chance Bus Stop
‘Good. And you didn’t add that you’re not a prostitute?’
‘But I’m not.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Just don’t say it.’
‘Okay. But I’m not very hopeful. The problem with people, and men in particular, is so many of them seem to just be alpha males who want to change me. I become a challenge for them,’ I say.
‘Honey, those are the ones you ignore. Alpha males should really be called beta males. They’re the early version of a male before testing and bug fixes. They aren’t stable and suitable for the public.’
‘So the finished product hasn’t reached the market yet?’
‘If we’re lucky, these alpha males will be gone circa fifty years from now and we can all date freely and happily ever after.’
‘Excellent.’
Later that night, when all the lights have been switched off and I’ve drawn the curtains so that I’m in the dark, I lie in my bed with eyes closed, and the face of the man buying date flowers that morning plays in my mind. There is always a face playing in my mind. I can’t imagine things I haven’t seen, and even though I live in a semi-rural location, I haven’t seen enough sheep to fill a sequence long enough to last the time it takes me to fall asleep. What I remember and know is faces. I wish it were historical facts, the times tables or even maps, but here I am, able to recall a face I once spoke to at a bus stop.
I move over the imaginary face of today’s man in my head now. The outline of the lips with a scar, the gap in his left eyebrow, the stain on his shirt collar, his hands holding the recently purchased flowers, until I finally drift off to sleep.
The next morning I check my dating app. Surprisingly, my honesty seems to have worked. I have three new matches,a high score for me. One who would love to have some fun, one who says he wants other things than kisses wink-wink, and one who says I’m a beautiful girl and how was my day?
I message the middle one because it seems the best match: I, too, want other things than kisses.
Blade
London
On the bus home Mum insists on standing until a seat becomes available all the way in the back. I try, in vain, to get her to take a priority seat that’s in front of us.
‘I don’t have a walking stick, do I? And my pregnant days are long gone. Only used that seat during those nine months with you. But boy, did I use it then, pushed my middle out as soon as I found out and cupped it,’ she says.
‘It’s okay. Sitting in a designated seat isn’t a sign of weakness, Mum.’ But she keeps her eyes averted from me, and I can see there’s no point.
Giving up, I follow her to the very back of the bus. Huddle next to her like I’m a kid again.
But I’m a twenty-nine-year-old man, and this shouldn’t be my life. I allow myself a moment to think about where I was three years ago. Making a sweaty morning commute in a shirt that still smelled of ironing-spray mist, going to an office with people who weren’t in need of round-the-clock care, other people to email to say, ‘Hope you had a nice weekend’ and ‘Thank you for the below.’ I always had plans, was always hours or days away from the next event or meet-up or sponsored half marathon. I spent too much money eating outand stressed when I’d forget to text my girlfriend during the day. I had a life.
I haven’t been back to the area where I used to work. Avoid the whole length of that Tube line in case I run into someone I used to know whose life has progressed and didn’t just halt one October like mine did. I wonder what the owner of my favourite lunch place thinks, if they asked about me or just assumed I dropped dead one day, never to be seen again. I’ve kept renewing my Office 365 subscription out of principle, even if the only time I’ve used Excel since leaving my job was to make a medication timetable for Mum last year. At £7.99 a month, I feel I’m still part of the club.
Now here I am in coffee-stained sweatpants, and the day’s only excitement is an outing to pick up another prescription. When my girlfriend finally left me, she kept the friends, the car and the libido. I was left with Mum, her Clio from 2001 and the only climatic experience I can imagine coming from a cheese fridge-raid at midnight.
Mum stretches her legs out in front of her, leans her head back so that the tip of her chin points in the driver’s direction and closes her eyes. I want to catch her whilst she’s still making sense, whilst she’s a hundred per cent here, not when she checks out for the day and all that’s left is a shadow. I lean my head towards her, bending my neck in a curve to reach the top of her head, where I rest my cheek. Feeling guilty for letting my mind wander, for thinking of where I might be if I wasn’t here. Because of course I’m here. There’s nowhere else I’d choose to be.
‘Are we going to talk about it?’ I ask.
Her eyes flutter open. ‘Itbeing...?’
‘Itbeing you being mistaken for a homeless person and identified by social services.Itbeing you escaping the house to sit at that bus stop on the corner of Hornton Street once again.’
‘Escapeimplies I have been kept prisoner. Am I a prisoner, Blade? I thought you maintained that I am not confined to the house or living in the absence of freedom.’
I sigh.
‘No one is trying to restrict your freedom. We’re worried about you.’ Somehowwehas more authority thanI, but of course, in reality there is no one else. A cousin who lives in Australia and sends a Christmas card that always arrives after New Year because of the postal service.Weimplies there is someone behind me, nodding at my words and carrying some of the weight of it all. Not just me and Mum, alone.
‘I have that button they gave me,’ Mum argues.
‘Yes, the one you mistook for a direct line to my phone. Concierge service.’ Mum had called up the emergency on-call nurse asking to have her heating turned down and could Blade please bring a glass of water? For someone who wants to maintain her freedom, she can be astoundingly dependent.
