…the dull visual thud of another field, another tree, another commuter town. The train jogged its way along the tracks. Not wanting to think about where she was going she picked up the paperback and started to read…
…the pages of the book were slightly damp. She hated touching paper with wet fingers. The novel was bad anyway. She put it down and stared at the purple and orange fuzz of the opposite seat…
…the sandwich she had bought before she got on the train sat on the table in front of her. Half-eaten it’s crescent shape; a gummy smile of cold bacon and congealed yellow wax. The coffee was cold and grey…
…she thought about what she would say to him. How she would begin to explain. How these things do happen sometimes. That no one was to blame…
…she had only turned away for a second. The tide hadn’t seemed strong. People were swimming in the sea for God’s sake. How would she start to tell him? It’s your daughter, she…
…she opened the window. The air was cold. She let the book go. It fluttered briefly then caught in the branches of a tree and lay there. A twisted, broken thing…
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