Letitia waved Luella.
Shortly, just shy of the city, with 400 hundred miles ahead, the driver tannoyed a break.
Good news for those who been with us since Bristol. Not so, Exeter, Stonebarrow, Penn Beacon. If you need to stretch your legs or smoke. Need the amenities? The coach toilets are out of order. Ten minutes, please, people. That’s ten minutes.
She sidled through the service station crowds, went to the last stall in the bathroom, took the smack from her pants, ran the foil until the foil was black, then rolled the foil in tissue and flushed the foil. Habit. She went back outside and cadged a smoke from a bloke on the tarmac. She circled the idle coach. The motorway screaming. Thought of Luella. Thought their goodbye.
Luella. Reflections of Luella. Repetitions of. Luella, in glass, pacing paving, paned. Luella in November sunshades.
Luella, black window. Hand at hem to stop black dress further rising. Giving nothing away, Luella, black haired, bobbed, on the breeze.
But, what with the motored judder, almost like a shudder, what with her many reflections – floating, drowning, rising, falling – What with reasons: maybe a million and one, maybe none, she couldn’t be sure she’d caught Luella’s eye. But Luella caught Letitia’s.
Another second, it may’d been different. Time, huh.
and when i sleep, luella [i/xii] ©2019