Tourist
November 9th, 2005
By Archived Story
The story takes place in Swindon
and my thumbs hold the pages back.
Sun’s glaring and the familiar rhythm of
the tracks are punctuated by loud, dark
train stations. Sheep-speckled hills blur
by in the windows.
What would happen if I spoke to the girl
sitting across the aisle from me?
Would she laugh when I say elevator
instead of lift? Or line
instead of queue? Would
we make love
in some British way and
get married in a 421 year-old church?
Would we laugh at the Americans together?
Swindon is the next stop. Fiction and
non-fiction colliding.
I should leave the train. Explore
the town for myself. I should step through
the wardrobe into reality.
I don’t. In the story, a boy boards
a train for London and hides
in the luggage rack. I stand
and look to see if he’s there.
