personal blog: simon

jittering hands and it’s not from the cold outside. it’s a methodical ritual. automatic reflex, instinctive, free of awareness, something animals display when they sense a threat. what is there for me to fear now other than a reflection of myself, someone I avoided to show to the world.

the bitter thunder rolls from a vehicle zooming pass me and then another. a musician turning his last trick for a bit of change. the city settles after nine and the number of riders shrinks in the subway car, leaving many red seats available. I drop on the one closest to the door. four station stops to my car.

the streets where I spend my youth, the smell of stale air in the subway tracks, the same amusement of passengers, all memories crawling back to me.

the haul of anger and pain. the time elapsed and wasted… and the secret shared with Bryan oh so long ago. something I cannot hold over him. something I cannot hold anymore.

it was easy to share and then vanish as I only saw Bryan that once and I had no intentions to ever see him again. at times, it’s easier to tell a stranger the truth than the closest ones to you. but, here I am finally faced with the reality of the truth.

getting home suddenly becomes an urgency.

how ridiculous I feel examining the patches on the elbows of my jacket; as Bryan appeared distraught, wrung in torn jeans and a T-shirt that have had better days; as Jacob settled in a second-hand jacket that seemed washed too many times.

the black night as my father’s fingers pry and the echo of Bryan’s words, ‘get to know’, all squashed and spinning.

is this what I’ve been angry all along about?

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© simon whittle — second act