next time

Ghost ships in the harbour. A particular event repeats itself, this time upon somebody near me. After some wine to ease the frustration, I head to the tram and read a book from somebody else’s dreamland. A girl – thin, dressed in black, small face but largish, angular nose – sits opposite, reading a book entitled Suicide. A woman nearby struggles with her bag and newspaper as she carries on a full-on phone conversation with somebody, barely pausing for breath during the whole time she’s near me. I can turn the music up to defeat this, I think to myself. It nearly works, even. I’m happy, removed like this.