Inbetween Time

The only time you ever have ‘enough time’ is in between things. Such as now - while I lie flatly between duvet and throw - when I am supposed to be packing. An in between state (I am in) because I left work an hour ago to go home to pack for the very long journey tomorrow where we cross continents. Another man I know crosses oceans (going the other way round the globe).

Everyone is on the move again after the roast turkey and stuffing and gravy sandwiches. I lie flatly and think of the beauty of the way - how family will fly up to taunt and tear one down and then shoot up like a distress signal which ends in a glittering shower-burst of light - the winds picked up at night and in the day it was still. 

Orcadian landscapes have a haze they wear; the locals call it the Har. When there is no wind and the sun is lower than you could possibly paint it on the horizon the Har dissipates the sunlight and generously spreads the particles across seas and mounds making everything glow, faintly. When the wind picks up the droplets are blown clear and you’re left with hewn edges. Fragments of rock that were sleepy giants turn in to tablets. There are bird calls everywhere and the sun rises only to set - you’re right there sir - there is a certain timelessness about it all.

When I travel my body puffs up. That is when I travel internationally across time zones; that is when I am not in any time zone. Maybe it’s because the mental state of waiting (for the flight to be over) versus the physical sensation of it being day when it should be night (thus having gained a few hours out of nowhere) creates a physiological contradiction in me that makes me swell. I have no idea but time is tricksy.

And so why is it that I only feel like I have enough time in between things. Like for example, you have a meeting at 3pm but you got out early from the dentist's at 12pm so you have 3 hours to kill - you literally have it in such abundance that you need to get rid of it via murder - poor time. You think we don’t want you when you know all people want is more time, you must get such mixed messages all the time time. It must be the want for something to arrive quicker or last longer that marks the passage of time. Or gives it any meaning at all, otherwise we’d all be here in between states neither waiting nor wanting nor waning. And a warning to all layabouts like me who try to hide from time in between inner and outer layers of bedsheets fully clothed lying really pebble still - we won’t go unnoticed - time will creep up and devour us whole like a crocodile.

Walk On Amy

‘I mean, whatever way you look at this you’re a prick.’

Amy begrudgingly walks over the bridge towards the ornate gates, on through the cemetery until she’s soon at the far north end leaving under the cherubim splodged arch, out on to a busy road whilst turning left towards a junction, she tugs her hair. ‘You’re such a prick’, she says breathless like she doesn’t really mean it. Above is the clearest blue sky she has seen in years, or taken note of - you see, only on an unplanned day like this would Amy have time to notice such things; usually she’s on her phone putting filter upon filter over her Instagram shots or perusing the maps to get somewhere quicker. Today she had no where to be. She wished at the start of the realisation process that someone would call, anybody with a need for her to be somewhere, anywhere. Alas, nobody called and her phone was now dead without battery. Her little flat soles ached from the standing, then the pacing, and the prolonged walking that followed. She thought, ‘I might as well enjoy the day if I have it to myself’ and set off in any old direction reaching a park, in the end. Now mid park she sees a bench and decides to have a rest.

‘When will you be back?’

‘I’ll be back on Saturday by 14:00’

‘Yay’

‘Looking forward to seeing your pretty face’

‘[insert blush emoticon]’

There are some ducks lying on the grass, a whole group of them with one or two waggling their tails. The pond water looks prettier than she expects it to because a park in the city is probably full of tramps or lager cans they leave behind, but today it was particularly beautiful, shimmering with the strokes of the wind. Taking out her phone she kisses it for luck but no signs of revival, then one duck makes a splash. He had said 14:00. Stretching her toes in to a point and then back again, Amy thought to herself that once she did ballet and later she had aspirations of being a backing dancer for R&B music videos. Where could she be if Amy had pursued these dreams? Where could he be? Biting her lip, we know what she’s thinking, but why would he do that? 

‘Prick’, she says at herself. The reason her phone’s dead is because she had been calling his number every half hour after he was late by two hours, then every five minutes after the third hour. There was probably never an intention for him to show up, but she mistook his positive messaging as a promise to meet. He never showed. The wind blew and her skin prickled. Earlier in the morning Amy had moisturised her skin so that it would be smooth to the touch if he ever touched her, just in case he did - you see she wanted to be ready, with smooth skin. She’d also painted her nails a vermillion and applied some hair serum to make her locks smell nice as well as bounce, but she only hoped and couldn’t be sure flirting would occur. She had thought it was a date but…

Big. Fat. Tears plop next to her hands that grip the bench oh so hard. She sobs but tries to stifle it and ends up snorting and then getting a bout of hiccups. The wind rushes past her rouged cheeks to evaporate off her rolling tears and to leave crusty salt marks by her ears. Poor Amy. Nothing would wish this upon her, particularly not the guy who’s really very fond of Amy but mistook Saturday for a Sunday. Tomorrow Patrick would turn up on the south side of the bridge at two o’clock precisely and wait and wait and wait.