Sick Notes [antikvár]

The bus moves slowly through the whirling sleet. The windscreen wipers switch slowly, dragging slushed snowflakes so cold water streams down constantly. I was one of just a handful of passengers boarding this late trip, but I walked right to the back to sit down and I földed my coat and scarf on the seat next to me to ensure I was left alone. And so I was. I spent the journey - seven long hours up the motorway - trying to look through my reflection to catch the shrinking numbers on the blue signs, to see inside the cars with the flashing lights on the hard shoulder. And as the songs on my Walkman slowed I closed my eyes and must have rolled my head against the headrest trying to go to sleep, because loops of my hair have worked themselves loose of my ponytail. I can see in the window now how they have been snagged into peculiar orbits. Rounding the corner on to Chorlton Street,