We sprinted across the car park in the pissing rain. I’d coated my wilting fringe in hairspray so it dribbled down my face, forming sticky trails on my cheeks, trickling into my eyes and blinding me. I could run with my eyes closed though, and still catch your scent – your mother’s perfume, Parma Violets candy and the permanent marker you use to paint your fingernails. I felt myself getting close enough to hear your heavy breathing, to feel your back-kicking feet scrape my knees and your pumping fists catch my fingers. I tried to tap your shoulder but I misjudged and our feet entangled. Entwined, we formed a solid mass, flying like a cannonball down inside the dusty subway, sliding and rolling into a confused, damp heap.
I checked your bones and you checked mine and then the tickling started. Giggling and afraid, horny and frozen, we scooted against a wall pushing the bottles and cans aside. Deep breathing, lit only by the entrance, we listened to the rain tapping expectantly on the concrete nearby, waiting for us to emerge.
I always knew you were a good runner. You’re always running away from your past towards the horizon, fixing your gaze on every dead tree or lump in the ground, and declaring out loud this is home…. this is going to be it. But it never happens, and I hate always being the one to tell you. So I cuddle your damp hoodie, and insist that one day it’ll happen.
(*Note – photograph is not mine but taken from dunstablehistory.co.uk, and all rights (except memory) are their’s)