Exercise 1.12 - Eavesdrop on a conversation
‘He said to come over right away.’ Person 1 whispered.
‘Did you go?’ Person 2 asked intrigued.
‘I haven’t seen him in years!’Person 1 exclaimed.
***
'Tomorrow never comes'It’s raining and the bus is late. Her fingers nervously twist the rings on her left hand, her friend alternates between casting anxious glances her way and peering along the street, hoping the bus will arrive soon. Tomorrow the sun will shine, the engines will run smoothly and buses will come and go. This she knows: life always goes on, regardless of the minutiae of individual lives. Tomorrow she will have her morning coffee, shower, dress, and go about her day as though nothing were different. Today everything is different and nothing can ever be the same again. Tomorrow she will know this still and she will pretend all the same.
‘Number 106?’ her friend asks.
She shakes her head; ‘No.’ The bus pulls to the curb with a screech of brakes and belches out exhaust fumes. She coughs and thinks that maybe she should turn around now. Go home, cook dinner and then tomorrow everything will be the same.
Only: she will know the difference.
‘Number 102?’
She looks down the street, yes, that’s it. She tells herself to go home. Her feet stay rooted to the spot. She agrees with herself, she should go home. Her feet climb the stairs and her hand passes her fair to the driver. Her friend follows her and pushes her into a seat close to the front. She shakes her head and goes to the back of the bus.
The bus pulls out from the curb; her plans to go home are left by the roadside, choking in the fumes. Its six o’clock: he said to come straight away but that was at ten o’clock this morning. She decided to go at four o’clock this afternoon. She hasn’t seen him in years. She tells herself it is already too late. She decides to get off at the next stop. Tomorrow she will go to the markets and buy mango's, she will make mango mouse for dessert and forget about today. Tomorrow she can still save herself.
Her fingers thoughtfully twist the rings on her left hand; they slide over the knuckles easily. Her friend glances anxiously out the window, her eyes darting between glass and hand, noting the removal of the rings. Her friend says nothing. She slips the rings into her purse and rubs her thumb over the indentation left behind. Yesterday she felt naked with her rings left absentmindedly on the bathroom counter. Yesterday she had her morning coffee, showered, dressed, kissed her husband goodbye and went about her day because nothing was different. Today everything is different and nothing will ever be the same again.
‘This is it.’ Her friend stands up and pulls the cord. The bus lurches to a stop and they climb down. She looks at the address scrawled across the scrap of cereal packet. They walk across a busy main road and down two or three quiet streets. The house is the second on the left.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Her friend asks.
She shakes her head, ‘No, but will you wait?’ her friend nods and crosses the road to sit at a park bench.
The house is the oldest in the street. There are paint cans by the garbage bins and a ladder propped against the side of the house. Boxes are stacked in a neat pile down the driveway and she can see the tail end of a bicycle but there is no car. Her mobile phone rings, a distant buzz from the depths of her hand bag. Inside she sees movement behind the makeshift curtains, the shadow moves past the front window, toward the front door. All thoughts of tomorrow slip through her fingers. The figure in the doorway is the only yesterday she cares to remember.
She pushes the gate. Today is finally here and tomorrow, well you know what they say about tomorrow.
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