The Red Bow
Nina stood at the stove, watching steam rise slowly from the saucepan of porridge. Not the golden, hearty kind, but the cheaper, store-brand oats that came in packets for 29 pence a pop, mealy and slightly bitter. She stirred it with a spoon, popped the lid on, and leaned against the fridge. The old Electrolux rumbled familiarly, as if it approved of her movements.
Outside stretched Builders Street. Rows of squat council flats, tall sycamores that stuffed their fluff into open windows every spring, a little flower kiosk glowing on the corner. Nina had lived here for twelve years, and the street was embedded in her as much as the callus on her heel, the creak on the fourth step, or the knowledge that Mrs. Twyford from number 17 always hung out her sheets on a Monday.
Boris walked into the kitchen without warning, as he always managed to do. He had a knack for appearing. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a pale grey shirt Nina didnt recognize. It took her a few moments to realise shed never seen it before. But in that first moment, she simply caught a scentfaint, floral, with an undertone of something sweet. Not her perfume, not his aftershave, not the leather seats in his car.
Well then, my Spartan? Boris peeked into the saucepan, good-naturedly screwing up his face. Back to bread and water again, eh?
Oats, Nina replied. With onions.
Onions, are they now? Thats living the high life. He patted her on the shoulder. Just stick it out a bit longer; soon itll all pay off. The Apple Tree Cottages arent going anywhere, youll see.
Nina nodded. Shed mastered the art of nodding in a way that looked like agreement, but was really just tiredness. Her head spun againa light sort of dizziness, as though someone had gently tipped the room sideways. It was the third day running. She knew why. She kept quiet.
Have they fed you today? she asked him.
Had a sandwich lunch at work. Nothing wrong with that.
He picked up his mug, filled it with tap water, drained it standing up, set the mug in the sink, and left for the lounge. Nina stared after the mug for a moment, then turned off the gas and started spooning the porridge into bowls.
Three years of cutting back had taught her some things. Shed swapped out cottage cheese for the cheapest kefir, mended her coat herself on the left sleeve, was still wearing it for the fifth winter running, and last set foot in a hairdressers in November two years ago. Nowadays, she trimmed her own hair in the bathroom mirror, careful not to look too hard. Sometimes it turned out all right. Sometimes it didnt.
Three years ago, Boris had shown her the photos: a small house in a village called Apple Tree Cottages, forty minutes by train from the city. Brick, with a converted attic, apple trees in the garden, and an old well that was now just decoration. Green shutters. Wooden porch. A bench under the lilac bush.
Look, hed said, laying his laptop on her knee. Go onhave a look.
And Nina had looked. Shed felt something warm in her chestnot joy, but something close. Possibility. Shed always lived in flats, air and walls that belonged to other people. And there, on the screen, were apple trees.
Itll take about three years of hard saving, said Boris, businesslike. Ive worked it out. If we put away this much every month, and you trim your costs a bit
How much is it?
He named the figure. Nina hesitated.
Thats a lot.
Its a house, Nina. Our house. Garden, good air, peace and quiet. You think that comes cheap?
She agreed. Not at once, but she did. They set up a joint savings account. Each month, Nina transferred half her pension plus whatever she earned from accounting for a small firm, part-time. It wasnt much, but it added up. Boris always said he put in three times as much from his salary.
Nina trusted him.
Trust was her natural gift, people said. She didnt trust because she was foolishshed simply found life easier that way. It was simpler not to check and double-check every time; that only wore you out.
The first winter passed almost easily. She ate basic, dressed plainly, but it felt a little like a game. Like in your childhood, when you couldnt afford ice cream, so you invented something else and then it mattered more, because it was yours. She made soups from whatever was cheapest, read recipes for thrifty meals, felt triumphant if she nabbed something on offer. It was nearly fun.
The second year got harder. Her body started to send signalsnot loudly, but insistently. Weakness in her legs. Sleepiness that didnt shift, even after a full night. Sometimes, on the bus, she found herself just staring out at the city, not remembering where she was meant to get off. She never went to a private doctorshe couldnt pay, and the NHS queue at the local surgery was more than she could face.
Best get some tests done, she told Boris once.
Private?
At least you get seen without the endless wait.
Nina, you know every hundred quid matters now? Every single month. Whats wrong with the surgery?
She went. Booked in, queued, got a blood test. The results showed her haemoglobin was just on the borderline. Not disastrous, but nothing to celebrate. Doctor said: more red meat, foods rich in iron, vitamins.
Nina bought the cheapest multivitamins at Boots. Red meat simply didnt fit in her budget.
By the third year, Nina had stopped weighing herself. The bathroom mirror said enough. Her face had grown sharper, slightly yellow under her eyes, and her hair looked dull. In a charity shop on Forest Road, she found a decent dark blue overcoat, almost new. The sales lady, an older woman with hair dyed flame-orange, commented: Thats a good coat. Will last.
I know, said Nina.
We all know, the saleswoman replied, with a wry smile full of understanding but without joy.
Nina took the coat. On her way home, she caught sight of herself in a shop window. Stood there for a moment, then walked on.
Boris kept cheering her up. He was good at ithe always had the knack of making the future seem full of promise, if only you held on a little longer. He said just a little more so often that, for Nina, it became like background musicalways there, but you hardly noticed it anymore.
Youre amazing, hed say, seeing her eat the simplest dinner. A true Spartan. I admire you for it.
Nina would smile. Not from happiness, just because her face knew by now what was needed in that part of the conversation.
Sometimes she phoned her daughter, who lived in another city, with a husband and two kids. Calls were rare; she was busy with her life. Nina never complainedshe neither knew how nor wanted to.
How are you, Mum?
Im fine. Were still saving for the house.
Still saving?
Nearly there. Soon.
Well done, you two.
And then the talk would drift to the children, or the weather, or something mundane. Nina would hang up and head for the kitchen.
That autumn, the third of their thriftiness, smells became more vivid. Later, Nina decided the lack of food had sharpened her senses, like a fox that receives little and detects everything. She began noticing scents shed previously missed.
She first caught the fragrance from Boriss shirt in early Octoberthere in the kitchen, stirring the porridge. She told herself she was imagining it. Or maybe someone had stood next to him on the Tube; that happened.
A month later in November, he came home late, full of cheer and colour in his cheeks. He said hed been stuck at a meeting. She helped him off with his coat, and there it was again: the same scent, floral and sweet, with a comforting undernote. Some invented Chantelle. Nina didnt actually know it was Chantelle, but she could tell it was womens perfume, a costly one, and certainly not hers.
Tired? she asked.
Exhausted. Three-hour meeting, what a waste of time. He yawned, stretched, and headed to the bathroom.
Nina hung up the coat, stood by the hooks for a second, then went to warm dinner.
She had a talent for steering her mind away from things she didnt want to think about. She could channel a thought into a different streamnot because she was weak, but out of fear of what would happen if she thought about it. Not fear of Boris or a row, but the fact it might force her to act.
Each month, the savings account was topped up. Boris showed her the statements. Nina would study the figures and feel something a bit like hope. The numbers grewslowly, but they grew.
See? Boris would jab at his phones screen. Thats how much weve got now. Come spring, I reckon we can make our first move.
What first move?
Well, negotiate with the owners of Apple Tree Cottages. Sort out the terms, bargain a bit. There are always things to iron out.
Nina nodded. She didnt know the first thing about these things. That was his business: he handled paperwork and deals, she handled scrimping. That was the arrangement.
In December, he started coming home later, saying it was office partieseveryone was out celebrating, couldnt miss it or youd be left out of the team. Nina understood. She always did.
But one December night he came back past one from a work do, and he didnt look like someone whod just spent hours at a drunken table. He looked resteda funny word, but Nina couldnt shake it. Rested. Clear-eyed, calm, steady-voiced. Cheeks flushed, but not from drink; more like hed enjoyed himself.
Enjoy yourself? she asked.
Well, its all part of the job, isnt it? he said warmly. But when were in Apple Tree Cottages, plenty of peaceno more office parties.
He kissed her on the forehead and headed off. Nina sat up in the kitchen a long time, listening to the hum of the fridge, watching the snow fall outside.
In January she found the receipt.
It happened by accident, as these things do. She was about to brush his suit jacketthat new, navy one hed worn on New Years Eve. It was draped over a chair. Nina gave it a once-over with the lint brush, checked the pockets as routine before hanging it in the wardrobe.
In the left pocket was a small white slip.
She took it out and looked.
Oysters at The Lane28 December. Amount: £210.
Nina stared at the number, checking and rechecking she was reading it right. Then she set the slip down and gazed out the window. Outside on Builders Street, a woman was being pulled along the pavement by a dog. The woman was in no rush.
The receipt matched their monthly food budget. All the cereal, economy pasta, budget tea and cheap oil Nina measured out in portions, stretching as far as possible for the next transfer.
She put the receipt back into the pocket, hung the jacket, and returned to the kitchen.
The fridge rumbled.
Nina poured herself some water, drank it, put the glass down, picked it up again, set it down.
Boris was at workit always started at nine. Nina worked remotely, balancing documents from home. Today there was nothing, so she was alone.
She wondered who went to Oysters at The Lane in late December. Shed never been. Only knew it from adverts at the bus stop: lovely room, white linen tablecloths. A restaurant with a name like that wouldnt be cheap.
On the 28th of December Boris had said he was meeting his mate Nigel, a university reunion. Hed come home at ten, not smelling of wine but of that, just faintly: floral, sweet.
Nina didnt jump to conclusions. She was good at keeping thoughts at a distance, not letting them too near. Maybe he ate alone. Maybe a business meal. Maybe.
But that evening, when Boris came home, she studied him differentlynot hostile, not searching, just observing.
How was your day? he asked, kicking off his shoes.
Fine. Have you eaten?
Grabbed something at work.
I could heat up some soup.
All right.
He sat at the table, ate, scrolled on his phone. Nina sat across with her tea, watching him. He looked steady, unruffledeither he really was, or he hid it well.
Boris, she said.
Hm?
Is Oysters at The Lane expensive?
He looked up, only slightly. A second.
No idea. Never been.
Oh, said Nina. Saw an advert, thats all.
He dropped his gaze back to his phone.
Nina sipped her tea.
That February was cold and silent. Nina wandered around in her blue charity-shop coat, warming her hands on a mug, freezing on the bus. The dizziness got worse. She registered at the surgery, waited, the GP said the same as a year before: still on the borderline of anaemia, eat better, take vitamins.
I do take vitamins, Nina replied.
Which type?
She told her. The GP paused.
Theyre very basic. If you can manage…
No chance, said Nina.
The doctor didnt insist.
Boris in February seemed positively rejuvenated. He had new things: a different belt, new brown shoessmarter, more expensive than anything hed had before. Neat tan boots, very smart indeed.
New? Nina asked.
Got them cheap. My old ones fell apart.
Sale, Nina echoed.
Yeah, not from some fancy shop.
She nodded.
At the start of March, she glimpsed a notification on his phone. It flashed up while the phone was on the table and Boris was in the bathroom. Nina sat nearby, pretending to read.
Dealership: CarTown Ltd.
Message: Your CityCruiser is ready for collection. Red bow and requested extras included. Come in when convenient.
Nina set down her book.
She knew the CityCruiser: a big 4×4, expensive. Not remotely in their price bracket.
Later, it hit herthe red bow was what they did at showrooms: when a cars bought as a gift, out comes the bright red ribbon for the finalethe ones you see in adverts: Make it a special gift.
She lay awake, facing the ceiling, while Boris breathed steadily beside her. Every now and then, a car passed outside.
She thought of porridge with onion.
Cheap vitamins£1.79 a pack.
That coat from the charity shop.
How long it had been since shed had a haircut by anyone but herself.
The joint account.
Next day, she phoned for the balance. Listened, thanked the person, put the phone down.
The amount was half what it should have been.
Two years of saving, halved.
She sat at the kitchen table staring at its floral plastic cloth, at the faded brown ring where coffee had long since seeped in, scrubbing at it for months for no result. Just a mark. Nothing special.
Nina! Boris called from the lounge. That kettle on yet?
Putting it on, she replied.
Stood up, filled the kettle, clicked it on.
The heaviness in her legs was stronger than usual.
She didnt start following Boris right awaythe word made her feel pathetic. Yet one Thursday, when he said he had a business meeting, she left half an hour after him, telling herself it was just a walk, just an outing.
He hadnt parked at the office or outside some business dinner spot, but at the big shopping centre on Queens Road. She saw his car. She waited a bit, then wandered inside.
She found him outside the jewellers, talking to a younger womanmid-thirties, elegant blond hair, neat camel coat. They stood a bit too close to be strangers.
Nina didnt approach. She loitered behind a pillar, messing with her phone as if sending a text.
Boris said something; the woman laughed. The assistant brought out something in a velvet casea necklace or bracelet, Nina couldnt see. Boris nodded, pulled out his card and paid.
The woman took the bag, zipped up her coat, and they left together.
Nina stayed where she was.
People moved all aroundwrangling toddlers, talking on mobile phones, shopping centre radio warbling overhead, the smell of hot food drifting from somewhere.
Nina waited a bit longer, then left.
Outside, she found a bench and sat. It was March: the ground damp, the wooden bench somehow dry enough. She sat and watched the street: cars, strangers, a puddle at a crossing.
She didnt cry. Inside, there was a dense, quiet something, like soil under snownot empty, not hurting, just heavy and still.
After a while, she got up and went home.
Over the next few days, she just lived: made soups, worked, watched telly. Boris remained his usual selfpositive, supportive, sometimes distracted. Still going on about Apple Tree Cottages, how theyd go visit in spring.
You know, he said one evening, I reckon we could talk them into a payment plan. No need to save it all upfront.
Payment plan, Nina repeated.
Yespart now, part later.
How much have we got now? she asked, only lightly, as if she didnt know.
Well, with your last transfer, things are looking up. Ill have to check.
Have a look.
In a bit, he stretched, reached for the remote.
Nina went to the kitchen.
That night, she rang her daughter.
Mum, are you all right? You sound odd.
Im fine. Just tired.
Still being frugal?
Yeah.
Mum, do you really need this house? Why not just get a proper flat near you? Whats so great about Apple Tree Cottages?
Boris wants it.
And you?
Nina paused.
So do I, she lied. There are apple trees. And lilac.
Oh, Mum. Her daughters voice was gentle, the sort reserved for naive parents.
All’s fine, said Nina. How are you?
The conversation moved on. After, Nina sat holding her phone, thinking about apple trees. Did they, in real life, even exist there? Was there really a lilac bush? Or was it just a photo Boris had found online, knowing how much she liked apple blossom, and presented it as reality.
It wasnt even a thoughtmore like a chill of water spilled in her lap.
Three days later, she rang CarTown Ltd. Just asking about the CityCruiser, she said.
Wonderful choice, the woman at the other end said. We only just wrapped up a gorgeous red onebig bow and all. A chap bought it for his girlfriend. So sweet.
A gift, said Nina.
Yes, with the big red ribbon. Clients request, all very special.
I see, Nina replied. Thank you.
She hung up, put the kettle on and waited.
Her feelings inside remained the same: dense, quiet.
She opened her laptop, pulled up the savings statement. Didnt call, just checked herself. She had accesstheyd set it up together.
She read through the entries: her transfers, punctual as clockwork. His, less sosometimes half what he promised.
And the withdrawal log. Regular, not all explainable, not all small.
Nina got out her notebookthe one she used to track household expenses to the penny. She started a fresh page. Began writing.
It took two hours. The fridge whirred, outside it grew dark.
When she finished, she closed the notebook and looked at its cover. Then, she got a glass of water and drank.
It was all clear nowlike a puzzle with all the pieces spread out before you. Three years shed put money aside, month by month. Three years eating cheap, wearing other womens coats, avoiding the doctor, clipping her own hair above the sink. Three years of shrinking herself, becoming smaller, quieter, thinner, to fit their budget.
And money disappearing. Not all of it, but enoughand regularly. And there was a woman in a camel coat in the jewellery shop, and Boris paying with his card, steadily, matter-of-fact, as people do when it’s a habit.
And thered been a red bow at CarTown.
And the restaurant receipt for their entire months food money.
And that scentChantelleon a grey shirt.
She closed her laptop and went to the living room. Boris was in his chair, watching the news.
Want anything to eat? she asked.
No, thanks. Too late now.
All right.
She got into bed. Lay staring at the ceiling. Boris came in later, got into bed, and was snoring softly in minutes.
Nina lay awake a long time, thinking not of him, but herselftrying to recall when last shed done something just for her, because she wanted it. Not medicine, not a warm coat, but something delicious.
Good coffee. Shed always loved itreal, ground and strong. Shed gone eighteen months buying instant only, those skinny sachets for economys sake.
Blue cheese. Shed last had some five years earlier, before all this saving. She loved it with a bit of bread and grapes, a tiny celebration.
Oystersshed only eaten them once, on a seaside trip in her youth, and thought them marvellous the whole journey home.
Nina rolled over.
She didnt decide that night. The decision grew slowly, rising like bread in a barely-warm oven. She couldnt name the moment it was done, but in the morning, it was there: solid, plain, just itselflike a table cleared of all but the essentials.
The next days, she existed as usual. She cooked, she worked, she chatted as needed with Boris. He didnt notice anything. Or pretended not to. Didnt matter anymore.
One Thursday she followed him properlynot for proof, but to see, to make it real. She knew he often stayed late that day. She wore her old stone coat, not the charity blue, and followed.
He met the same woman, fair, neat, outside a café on Regent Street. Together they walked into the park. Nina followed at a discreet distance, calm, no shaking.
They stopped where the trees were thick. Boris handed her a gift, wrapped prettily. She unwrapped it, their heads close. He put his hands on her shoulders, kissed her.
Nina watched.
Then she looked down at her own hands: thin gloves, slightly worn fingers red from the cold.
After a moment, she turned and went home.
On the bus, she stared out the window. The city looked wet and greypuddles, bare branches, streetlights blinking alive one by one as dusk fell.
Back home, she went to the bedroom. Pulled out an old suitcasebarely usedand started packing: underwear, a few warm things, documents from the hall drawer, her NHS and pension cards, her savings book with a small pot of private money, carefully hidden from the joint account, painstakingly put by, a handful at a time.
She packed her phone, charger, her unfinished book.
She put the blue coat on the hook, taking instead the wine-red jacket she’d last worn three years agoit was a bit snug, but looked different, not like something borrowed.
Then she took out a piece of paper and pen.
She wrote: Thank you for the oysters and the red bow. Hope they tasted good.
She considered saying more. Decided against it. Folded the note, wrote Boris, left it on the kitchen table next to the brown coffee stain.
Taking her suitcase, she glanced at the fridge. It rumbled, as alwaysindifferent, unmoved.
Well then, said Nina aloud, goodbye.
She left the flat, key under the matnot from agreement, but because she didnt want it.
Builders Street was as usual: people heading home, a dog pulling on the lead, the florists glowing in the corner.
Nina paused a moment, then walked on.
She knew where she was going.
A big supermarketTaste Gallerystood two blocks away. She passed it most weeks, never going in. Too expensive. Beautiful displays, soft lighting, baskets of perfect fruit. That was for people who shopped for flavour, not price.
Nina walked in.
Inside, the air smelt of good coffee and fresh bread, music playing softly. The light was gentle, the shelves beautifully laid out.
She took a basket and paused. Then, purposefully, she walked the aisles.
Fish counter: she found tuna steaks, deep red, beautifully marbled. That piece please, she told the fishmonger.
Oysters, she saw, chilled in a rack. A tray of six. She picked them up.
Cheese: a wedge of the kind with blue veins, creamy in a wax rind. Nina added it.
A good breada dark, seedy loaf with crunch. Not economy, but real, honest bread.
Coffee: she stood a long time among the bags, finally selecting an Ethiopian blend, deep blue packet. Notes of blueberry and dark chocolate, promised the label.
At the till, she placed her treasures on the belttuna, oysters, cheese, bread, coffee.
The cashier didnt look up but said, Nice shop, this.
Thank you, said Nina.
It was a big sum, but she paid by cardfrom her own little pot of savings, not the joint account.
She left uncertain where to go. She wasnt going straight to her daughter, too far and too late. Her friend Val sometimes rang. Not yet, though. Nina picked a small hotel on the other side of town. Took a single roomnot pricey but good enough.
There, she unpacked her shopping onto the little table. Looked at it for a moment.
She asked reception for an oyster knife. The lady obligingly fetched a little blade.
Are you all right with it? she queried, friendly.
Ill manage, said Nina.
She did. It wasnt elegant, but she managed. The first oyster, slick and shining, smelt of the sea.
Nina ate it.
Then a second.
She sliced off a piece of tuna, some bread, a bit of cheese. Made coffee in the tiny hotel cafetière.
She ate slowly, savouring everything. Beyond the window: city lights, cars, warmth inside, soft radio music.
Nina didnt think about Boris. Nor about their dream home. Nor about tomorrow.
She thought about how oysters really did taste of the sea, just as when shed last eaten them in her youth. The tuna was soft and dark, lingering on the palate. The blue cheese was as sharp and creamy as she remembered. The coffee did indeed have a hint of blueberry, and it wasnt just the label boastingit was true.
She ate, and realised: this was her. Not a Spartan. Not someone who only endures. Someone who could tell the difference between a good oyster and instant oatswho, three years lost in someone elses plan, had at last returned.
She finished her coffee in small sips, listening to the city hum.
Well, Nina said quietly, hello.
She poured herself another.
She didnt know what would happen tomorrowwhere shed sleep a week from now, how it would be with Boris, if anything would be said at all. Whether shed ever live somewhere with real apple trees, not a web page fantasy. Whether shed ring her daughter today or wait for morning. Whether tomorrow would hurt in a way today didnt.
Of all this, she knew nothing.
Yet here, in a tiny hotel room, an empty oyster tray, and a cup of Ethiopian coffee, she knew one thing: she was herself. This was her taste, her decision, her evening.
And that meant something.
She took one last piece of cheese on bread and took a bite.
Streetlights blinked on outsideone, then another, then a whole string, as if someone had finally found the right switch.
Nina watched and chewed her bread with cheese, not saying anything to herself aloudjust sitting, simply eating, simply existing.
That, for now, was enough.
***
In the morning, she woke up before her alarm, lay a while looking at a strange white ceiling marked by a water stain. A strangers ceiling; maybe that was all rightnot overwhelming.
She got up, washed, brushed her hair. In the mirror, her face was lined, sharper than it should be, eyes shadowed. But something in it had changed. Or so she liked to think.
She didnt linger, got dressed, packed, thinking she must call Val, explain to her daughter, figure out somewhere to stay for a whilea lot to sort.
But first, she found the little hotel cafe and ordered breakfast: eggs, toast, and a proper cup of coffeenot a sachet.
The coffee came in a glass mug. Nina cradled it, savouring its warmth.
At the next table, an older woman read contentedly, ignoring the world, occasionally sipping her cup.
Nina watched her, thinking that women who read alone over breakfast dont look lonelytheyre simply busy with themselves. And thats not the same at all.
The eggs arrived piping hot with parsley. Nina ate them slowly.
Then, pulling out her phone, she messaged Val: Can I come round today? Need to talk.
Val replied instantly: Of course you can. Kettles already on.
Nina pocketed her phone, finished her coffee, put on the wine-red jacket, took her suitcase, and stepped into the street.
March air almost promised spring nowno longer winter, not yet full of blossom, just moist, the soil shifting somewhere underneath the concrete.
Nina paused on the hotel steps a moment, pulling up her collar, then set out for the bus stop.
She let her thoughts wanderit was nice just to walk, legs at ease, head clear for once.
Cars passed, a young mum pushed a pram, a crow watched her from a bare branch, looking as if it understood everything and had already passed judgement.
Nina looked at the crow.
Well, whats your verdict? she asked quietly.
The crow didnt answer, but hopped down to the grass, busy with its own affairs.
Nina smileda quiet, brief smile.
The bus arrived. She boarded, sat by the window as the city rolled byflats, shops, leafless trees, billboards. For three years, she realised, shed hardly looked out. Shed been elsewherein her head, in worries and plans that, it turned out, belonged to someone else.
But the city lived on, with or without her watching.
That was all rightshed catch up.
At the traffic lights, a car next to the bus held a fiftyish woman, singing freely along with her radio. Nina watched her lips move.
The light turned green; the car sped off, the bus rolled forward.
Nina leaned back, watching the world go by. Her phone was silentno messages, no missed calls. Boris might not have even been home yet, or perhaps he was, pondering things. That was up to him now.
Nina had her own life.
She was going to Vals. There would be hot tea, a long conversation. Then another dayand more daysfull of complicated things: awkwardness, tiredness, fear sometimes, questions with no answers.
But there would also be other things.
Coffee that actually smelt of blueberries.
Oysters that tasted of the sea.
A mirror she could look into without flinching at a stranger.
Not much. But not nothing.
The bus rumbled on. The grey city outside, alive. Nina watched it, thinking that apple trees must exist somewherereal ones, not fodder for dreams. And real lilacs. And real houses with a porch and a bench under a flowering bush.
Only, these arent gifts. Theyre things you find for yourself.
Someday.
But for now, just a bus, a window, March in the air, halfway between winter and spring.
Just that.
And, oddly enough, that was not so bad at all.
