by Alan Crossan
Snow peppered stubble fields flash by with ‘Tickets please’. The woman opposite shifts in her seat, cracked paperback in her lap. Making up behind a compact, she deflects quick-fire glances.
You close your eyes and lean against the window. Its vibrations echo through your skull. Your ipod shuffles three minute memory triggers.
Nirvana. Come As You Are: A Greek beach at 3am, shielded by stacked sun loungers, peeling foam soaked denim. A drunken fumble on virgin sand.
The Stones. Paint It Black: The Union jukebox on repeat. You always got the words wrong. ‘Seagulls turn a deeper blue.’ Sipping pre-lecture coffee, the morning you got the call. They’d found her. And the note.
Skip to the next track. You don’t recognise it. You look at the screen. A track from a gig-bought CD, a friend of a friend’s band, uploaded and forgotten as it synced.
No first or last, just snow peppered stubble fields and the woman opposite
Alan Crossan lives near Glasgow in the rain, but hopes to remedy that at some point.