movement stories

People fall into your life. Not metaphysically, they really fall. The last bus to Fallowfield is curiously late. Only three minutes, but that’s enough to notice when it’s nigh on 0100. I’m mid-sentence when the phone in my hand is replaced by Lisa’s left arm. The crashing of the phone gets lost as I am tackled across the aisle, somewhat unintentionally, by a half-conscious girl.

This is the point where I ask myself blatant questions about my recent consumption of hallucinogenic substances. None. Check. Somehow, then, there’s an Amazonian goddess firmly clamped around my neck that I am telling myself that I must have met before – drawing a blank, though. I really haven’t. I love random. This is ridiculous.

I laugh. She half-grins, I think. Maybe I imagined it. I hope not. Otherwise it would be rude. Ok, somehow she hasn’t spoken yet and she’s already made me care if I’m rude. That’s my default position. Who is this girl?

It’s my stop. I get off. She’s attached. Is this safe? Do I have a choice? Do I want one?

It’s February and it’s warm – for February. So it’s starting to feel like, well, nothing. I can’t feel my toes at all and we’ve been sitting on this bench for a good minute and a half. I have been absolutely inundated with explanation – she told me that she was dizzy and needed to sleep, then promptly did so.

Can’t leave miss Amazon to freeze to death a quarter mile from my house. Never been a weightlifter. Or strong. Or able to jog this short distance without worrying that my lungs wouldn’t survive it. Would be nice if she’d wake up. Another hundred yards.

Wanted: stroller.

Ok, if that’s not my front door, I’m going to shoot my optometrist. Feels like I’ve walked back to Newfoundland, though. No, it’s too cold for that. Keys. Lock. Frozen. Banging on the door seems to produce a confused roommate who silently applauds behind Lisa’s back and heads up to bed. Wanker.

I just got home from work and he thinks I’ve pulled. Not going to correct him right now, mind you, but I’m abhorred at the assumption. Really, I am. I’ve been practicing this innocent act for years. Self, give it a rest and get her some water.

Back to life and asleep on the couch, I can’t seem to leave the now solid yet recently near-death girl of bus-lane fame. I eventually drift off in the rocking chair. No, I don’t own a rocking chair. Yes, my roommate is an old man. Twenty-seven is old. It is when you own a rocking chair, at least.

Sunshine hits me. Not like a skillet or a pipe (of Clue fame) but more like a water balloon. Completely unexpected, harmless, yet I’m still curiously all wet. I’m not actually all wet, but surprise is inherently understandable when there’s a stationary figure breathing deeply on my couch.

Three hours pass before I get an explanation. Date rape gone wrong scares me and reassures me in one. I look at the phone number written in shaky hand for three full minutes after I am firmly kissed and she walks through that Victorian-era entrance.

Paper’s the only evidence I have that it wasn’t a dream.

Please tell me you can’t dream paper.