Day 51

You swear and thump the door. You’re reading about Dunkirk and your eyes flick from the page, to me, to the flashing tunnel interior. I think you might not be the type to talk about your feelings. Your neck is thick and you blame London Underground, the Mayor, the government and lazy people. On my side of the carriage, a woman laughs at her newspaper, a baby cries and a flower of panic blooms inside of me but still I say what I need to. I tell you we’re nearly there. It’s fine, just a delay, is the book good?

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