I took her to the disused railway line. The trees form a green tunnel, with patchwork sunlight dappling through the leaves. Looking eastbound, I see a circle of green pierced by light and flanked by the twin brown lines running to meet in the distance. In dim shade, there are grey walls coated in faded paint, covered in the icons of those who no longer walk here. In the long grass burned spoons and aerosol cans, all the pathetic detritus of a people that have failed their home.
When I told her where we were going, she rolled her eyes… must we? Haven’t we done this already?
She told me once; I have fantasies about being tied to the tracks, bound at the wrists and ankles, as a train is approaching.
She told me; I feel the vibration from the rails on my skin and in my bones and I’m writhing to get away, pushing my chest out, and I can’t… I just can’t.
And I have to walk away. I can’t abide the thought of her in peril, but I can’t explain the bulge in my jeans either, or my dry mouth, or my breathlessness, or that I’m trembling like I’m cold under this midsummer sun.
So I bring her back here out of confusion. I’d never tie her to these rusty old girders, and no train has run down here in sixty years. I just want to hear her story again. I want to hear her desire something.