A Little Death

The bus rumbles along. Sitting above the engine, Debbie enjoys the sensation rippling through her; the blossom lined road stretches before her. To her right streets strike out for the sea and the horizon, and the quivering in her belly intensifies. She looks at her hand, at her first liver spot. Debbie prefers the French expression: cemetery medals. She has never been to France, despite its proximity.

In front sits a woman with a perm. The tang of lily of the valley wafts over. Another woman joins her.
‘How are you?’
‘Frank died.’
‘Oh.’
‘In his sleep.’
‘Was he ill?’
‘Sixty-two.’

The voices fade behind the pounding of Debbie’s heart. Her cracked ribs complain. Frank was just fifteen years older than Debbie. She is breathless and heat rises on her breast. She recalls her younger self, before Simon; it seems like yesterday. Single, lonely but unafraid. Hopeful, looking forward.

Sometimes Debbie longs for the release death offers.

The bus moves on relentless. Gripping the seat back, knuckles white, she stands, shaking, and cries, ‘I want to live. Really live!’

Passengers stare; she catches her breath, she didn’t mean to speak aloud. She wonders what they make of the purple blush round her eye, her split lip, and finds she doesn’t care. She is ecstatic.

The bus judders to a halt. Debbie steps off, walks into the station and asks for a one way ticket to Dover. She doesn’t look back as the train slips away from the platform.