nervous or unsure… packet sandwich, shy unwrapping,
mayo on the jumper – goodlord no!
I ate those gummy-worms with verve and vigour.
Mythic femme-fatale. A bag of thick, fat, sweet
invertebrates.
Though I’ll admit – even with a confidence so
carefully honed, sometimes one must forgo for safety –
know what I mean, Ava?
Like, last summer
I was coming home from a work trip
up in Scotland –
long train, over-booked, toilets out of
order – as per, as per – but I’d found a window seat –
what luck!
An old man asked if he could take the seat
beside me –
but of course! I said.
He nudged my shoulder with his shoulder, you’re a lovely
lady,
and off we went.
We chatted as the train pulled from the city. I felt my
inner barmaid surface, joked boisterously. He opened a
can of lager, offered one to me – I declined.
Where’s your food and drink? He asked. You
should eat something.
I assured him I was fine.
He was nudging me a lot now.
Such a nice young lady.
Pretending to jostle for an armrest I was nowhere
near.
You should eat something, where’s your food? He asked
again
and jabbed me in the ribs.
My body shifted cold. My inner barmaid shrank.
By the third can he was telling me he liked my
dress, touching my thighs.
Trapped against the window, my mind was
racing – lab coat on – doing the various calculations:
how long did we have left, how brazen he might get, how
might I find a way to move or have him moved without
