Date: Wed, 03 Mar 2010 20:22:45 +0000
From: paxos@hushmail.com
Subject: London Victoria - part 2

Dillon looks at himself in the bathroom mirror.

He is pink from the shower.

Steam creeps across the mirror.  He rubs it away.  It creeps back.

He runs his fingers through his wet hair.  He scoops gel from a tub.

He inspects his armpits then sprays deodorant in a slow circling
motion.

He unscrews the top on his father's aftershave.  Dabs it.  He
nearly drops the glass bottle.  He places it back.  He adjusts its
position on the shelf.

"Dillon!"

He pulls up the boxer shorts that are too big for him.  He thinks
they make him look like a wrestler.  He pulls in his stomach.  His
ribs stand out.

"Dillon!  You'll be late."

----

"... the treaty of Versailles..."

Rain is teeming down onto the playground.  The usual puddles have
formed on the basketball court.  The wind sweeps the rain against
the classroom window.

"...the Germans..."

A pair of black shoes, laces tied together, swing from a telephone
line, battered by gusts of wind.

Dillon has his right hand in his blazer pocket.  Inside the pocket
his fingers are clutching a sheet of notepaper.

"So who can tell me...?"

Hands shoot up.  He puts his up too, looking flatly at the teacher
as he slides the paper out of his pocket and onto the desk in front
of him.

"Yes Lilly?"

Hands go down.  He smooths the paper.  He starts to read it.

"No Lilly.  Dillon, you had your hand up."

He sits up.

"Ah, sir.  I did know.  But I forgot."

Sniggers. He shoves the paper back into his pocket.

"Anyone?"

---

It is the last period of the day.  The last few minutes of the last
period of the day.  Any moment the bell will ring and the school
will explode with noise and empty.

His palms are sweaty.  He rubs them on the desk.

He runs a finger around his loose-fitting collar.  He swallows.

He looks at the clock.  A red second hand sweeps around and knots
his stomach as it goes.

The black hand ticks forward.

He looks at the girl opposite.  She is chewing gum.  He stares at
her blankly.  She looks at him.  She looks away and silently mouths
"Fuck off."

The bell rings.

The teacher is trying to be heard over the noise.

Dillon is stuffing his books into his back-pack.  Like a stick in
an eddy he is picked up, carried along by the crowd of black
scuffing children and deposited outside the school gate.  The rain
has turned to a drizzle.

He walks with his hand in his blazer pocket.  Turning down familiar
streets with no idea where he is going.

---

The same car is parked where it was before.  The rear windscreen
wiper smooths the rain away.

Dillon swings the back-pack off his shoulder and carries it in one
hand.  Like a weapon.

---


Comments appreciated.  paxos@hushmail.com