pasty legs, you’ve got pasty legs…
I said nothing, stood up, gathered my things.
You must be starving, love. Not even a sip of water this
whole time.
He looked me up and down, turned to lift his
suitcase off the rack.
I saw my chance – slipped through the gap,
sped past him and along the aisle towards the door,
but an elderly woman was in the doorway
struggling to disembark, her daughter helping her slowly
down onto the platform.
I felt him catch me up.
I didn’t look round.
He pressed his body into mine, buried his face
into my hair and croaked
you’re a cunt.
And then the door was clear and I ran.
It felt so stupid, Ava, running from this old
man – too drunk, too frail to catch me up.
But run, I did –
up the platform, through the station, zig-
zagging through the crowds of people watching the
departures board, and out into the summer evening air.
That strange fixation on my eating, Ava – what was that?
These are the kinds of things that could deter a
girl from her indulgence in a gummy-worm or two,
which is why I took such pride in eating them,
Ava,
each precious Thursday evening,
the city with its lights on, the endless office
windows, the train reflected, winding through – a worm
itself.
Such quiet joy!
But pride
comes before a fall, Ava.
One happy Thursday evening, worm-in-mouth, I
glanced up – met the watchful eyes of a man
who seemed to know me,
and recognised him
with a jolt
