It was a three hours long trip back to her hometown but she’d rather it was longer. She’d rather have time to finish a couple of books, listen to all her playlists, gaze out the window and stare relentlessly towards barren lands. Her vision of the outside world got blurry as the train accelerated. Everything started to fly out of her sight, it became impossible to count all the trees that passed by. But it didn’t matter. All she wanted was to stay in the train a bit longer or perhaps never reach the destination.
There, she calculated the possibilities of a delay, of an accident, of a malfunctioning, of a Chevrolet parked on the rails. She could see the smirk on the driver’s face, his legs crossed on top of the steering wheel, an unlit cigarette parched between his lips sloppily. He looked impish, itching his dark lampshade moustache. She squinted her eyes and in return the youthful driver who had wound up the windows winked dismissively towards her. Took his cigarette between his index finger and thumb examining it like an expensive cigar. Then turned back to face her abruptly, yet kept his gaze steady. She could tell he sought trouble. He took off his fedora to give a final salute and the train had finally met the Chevrolet. The crash and the explosion were instantaneous, deafening.
She had found this plot surreal yet let herself enjoy the gullible story for she’d rather think about the ghoulish moustache driver than about home. His cold looking, smoke scented skin was more welcoming than her ghastly destination. She still found him the most repulsive of her characters but he was better than home. He was better than the warm living room with the notorious fire place in the far end and the mosaic ottoman rug laying tepid on top of the bronze floor.
Comments