things getting weird or worse.
I’d noticed that his knuckles were cut and bruised. He
saw me looking.
I might be old but I can put a fella in his place… you look
hungry, love. Why don’t you get a little snack out.
Four hours until my destination.
I put my headphones in, feigned sleep
against the window.
He rapped his knuckles on my head.
Hello? Hello? Let me ask you something.
I told him I was feeling claustrophobic.
You can put your legs across my lap, darling, not like
that – to relax – not like that don’t get offended…
I watched the landscape rushing past outside the
window. There were tight gold bales in every field.
I felt bale-like, bound and solid and ridiculous sitting
there.
Perhaps, Ava, you’re one of those women
who can just stand up and loudly call the man a pervert,
walk away. Not me.
Why aren’t you eating? He croaked into my ear.
For hours, Ava, I held my thighs locked tight, arms rigid –
nodded, smiled, shook my head – while he besieged my
hair and arms and legs, poking my ribs, tapping my
shoulder, my head, placing his hand on the window while
he spoke to me so that his arm was like a rollercoaster
bar across my chest.
At one point a guard came through to check the
tickets and I sent a look that said please help me.
The old man asked with exaggerated frailty how
his day was going. The guard looked thrown by this and
said,
not too shabby, thanks,
then shrugged at me, moved on.
Touch, poke, jostle, grab.
A man in his late forties at the table across
the aisle – headphones, laptop – ignored my search for
friendly eyes.
By the time we pulled into the last stop, he was
drunk, his voice a gurgle, singing
