A million miles from here

"Marge! Marge! Marge!!"
Turning her head unwillingly she aimed her face at the target.
"It's you, isn't it? Marge Mantel?"
Marge strained locked muscles to show signs of being human by turning her mouth upwards. It looked painful, like a puppeteer had sown thread into the corners of her lips and was yanking up.
"Marge, how are you?"
Now this question had always puzzled her. I mean did people want the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God? Or just a dirty lie, a lie round enough just to fit into the square hole of today? Regardless she had always answered the same.
"Yes, fine thanks. And you?" 

This response was okay up to a point. I mean it skewed the attention away from her and on to someone else, leaving a sense of extreme relief at having clambered over the first hurdle of conversation. However, there was one problem - it invited the other person to shower you with their stuff. And didn't they often love it. 

So, here they stood, outside the second hand book shop, Marge laden with twisted carrier bags full of hard backs, cutting into her hands, making them blue and numb. The other, with her hands free, now windmilling around as she went into yet another detailed story of her recent past.

As Marge stood there she let each of her legs take turns to take the extra weight she was carrying; this way she could twirl her foot around on the free leg while the other took the burden, the strain. 

She'd always struggled to follow conversations. She found her mind drifting too much, distracted by a multitude of wayward thoughts. They'd dance around the edge of her mind for a while, waiting for their moment to barge in and trip up all and sundry. She knew they were coming. There were signs. 

Funny thing is, no one would ever know, never, ever know, that she was a million miles from here. She had ways, learnt ways, secret strategies of survival. She had graduated at the university of deception some time back. Yet the pain remained, and, unfortunately, so did the 'other'.

Thirty minutes had passed. The bags remained and she was frozen. Since her original question she had uttered only three words - "Really?", "Heavens!" and  "No". The other utterances were a mixture of tuts, surprised sounds of different scaled pitches, all punctuated at just the right interval so to appear there. Guess work mainly, sheer guess work. The product of years of practice. Hard work you might call it. Bloody hard work.

But she'd had her chance, early on, before the bags' handles had cut in deep. She had her opportunity to let go, to let it all hang out, burst forth and multiply. She had herself to blame for not taking it, nobody else had forced her hand. And now she'd been snared.

The 'conversation' was coming to an end. She was more sure this time, although about fifteen minutes and five minutes prior to the this she had also raised her hopes, for them only to be dashed by another train of thought other than her own.

She must say something to excuse herself, or at least give some sign, other than the all so agreeable nods, grimaces and smiles. There were so many weapons in her arsenal: cat to feed and tea to put on. As well the more obvious - hands to mend, feet to bathe and anxiety and frustration to quell. She had missed her moment and now must pay the price.

"Oh, is that David? I think it's David, the one with the brolly up. David!!"

By now the ends of Marge's hair were dripping with rain. But David had saved her. For the time being anyway.

Trudging to the bus stop, her hands not feeling her own, she knew there'd be others. Tomorrow she'd stay at home, read her novel and dust the lounge. She might sew the button on her cardigan; she had been meaning to do that for ages. She might also open up some of the letters that she had been avoiding. If she had time she'd phone the undertaker, and finally make those arrangements for Peter's funeral. She'd been putting that off. Instead finding seemingly more important things to do, like popping out to the book shop, cleaning and getting lost in conversations.