lo, commuters.

they were talking about theatre.
he moved over to her side of the bus.
the seat behind her.
muttered something about not being able to hear.
these are our social barriers.
sitting next to her would be breaking some code.
some instinctinve rule.
they had the same silvery white hair.
like an eerie moonlit cloud lining,
or something like that.
she might have been married,
just lost a husband more likely.
a grieving widow.
going to the theatre to escape the house.
everything reminds her of him.
the chest-of-drawers he spent a week trying to put together
from a kit that be bought on the internet,
back when the internet was still mysterious.
the curtains she hung last week,
the ones he hated but she loved.
she always thought to herself,
"i'll hang them when you are gone"
this made her feel unspeakibly guilty.
she went to the theatre to escape her guilt.
maybe.
maybe she was never married at all.
or divorced.
back when it was just becoming popular.
no, best to sit behind her, not beside her.
we all have our own last line of defence.
these are the social barriers.
they spoke about theatre,
and i was behind him,
i could not stop looking at the flakes of skin,
peeling of his balding freckled head.
and although i never wanted to think it,
and as much as i would try to not think it,
i could not help but think what those flakes would feel like,
in my mouth.
repulsive, i know.
a man walks out on his aging wife,
and harasses women in pubs,
women who have just become to old to wear mini-skirts,
but dont know this.
mini-skirts were just becoming popular when they were young.
he flirts.
repulsive, i know.
he cant see his own flaking scalp.
he would need to use two mirrors.
like they do at the barber.
he cuts his own hair.
using a clipper he bought on the internet.
they spoke about theatre, and actors,
whose names they could not remember.
and i had a vile taste in my mouth.
to the left the sun was setting over the sea.
to the right couples were growing old
in seperate houses,
seeing the children every second weekend.
its popular.
like the internet.

The End

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