The Window

He looked at the condensation clinging to the single-glazed panes of glass that made up his bedroom window. Nothing and everything going through his head; an existential crisis in a sea of quiet. The water droplets stayed fixed; immovable. Time passed in lurches; inconceivable units of intangible nothingness. He found it hard to believe that he was the same person as 10 years before. His body made from entirely new cells; his mind filled with toxic reality. He thought back to when fiction caused him more fear than the real world. Now, he lamented, the scariest monsters sit in high-backed chairs around the globe, not slow to dig their claws into the world and hear it scream. His head was screaming now. A drop of water rolled down a window pane. A few more followed. A clock chimed twice. He sighed.

Bus Stop

She looked at the backs of her hands that she held out in front of herself, as though resting on a table that wasn’t there. So pale against the tarmac below, she thought. She could make out the bones of each finger, and every imperfection. She wore her grandmother’s wedding ring, a subtle silver thing, on the forth finger of her right hand; an act of defiance against the institution of marriage. But equally a sign of love for her mother’s mother. She smiled with the warmth of remembering. She tucked her hands inside her coat pockets, and watched an old Caribbean man wave down a bus in front of her with a knitted mitten held out over the road. She took one last breath of cold air and then exhaled, watching the mist of her lungs climb into the sky, before she stepped onto the bus. The doors closed. The bus left.