Gregg Wilkinson

Page 1

Waiting

Gregg Wilkinson

Bored with looking at the arrivals board inside, bored watching the inconsiderate parking manoeuvres outside, she pondered counting the black facing tiles on the wall that went through the middle of the station to the car park and noticed the wall like a gentle wave flowing through on its side. A memory drifted through, someone telling her about the famous sculpture at the old station, the wave sculpture. As far as she could remember, she had never seen it, but maybe the architects had used that old wave sculpture as one of the themes in the new station. That tune, Mr Probz, wave after wave slowly drifting......my face above the water my feet can't touch the ground. Slowly drifting. Wave after wave slowly drifting away. She sang to herself, looked at the mark on her ring finger. How quickly memories fade, the old station that was white tiles wasn't it, trying to remember, she had been through a thousand times, it was always loud, noisy, too small and inadequate, a place you hurried through to get to, or from the train. Here it was quieter, more comfortable, less hurried, less crowded, altogether more pleasant inside and outside, Neil Atkin must be very pleased. Still miles too early she thought, I could murder a cup of Earl Grey and walked over to Costa with the stupid guide book.


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