She will not run for a bus. Not shop at 8 á Huit with her net bag. Not drop coins in the slot to dry her things at the place up the street, put them in that net bag, bring them home through the huge steel gate. She will not speak with friends in the archway, and we won’t hear her voice drift our way. She won’t take tea at four, as she’d done since she had that job with the Brits. Won’t stop at the newsstand, chat with the grey-haired grouch, buy Soir, buy Match. Won’t speak of Blake, won’t make love, though I doubt she had since he’s been gone.
She won’t run for the bus—that was the last I saw of her—she still had it, she ran for a bus.
She won’t go to the stage to make sure things are right: sound, lights, but since he’s been gone her days at the stage, few. He was the boss, and she did go time to time to check in, let them know that she was still a force.
She won’t eat. In fact, toward the end, ate less—it was the grief—she got so thin. You should eat, we’d say, bring her sweets. I don’t seem to want to, she’d say. See someone, try to get some help, we’d say. I doubt she did.
She danced once, but this is the end. She will not dance. She will not stretch. She will not bend.
Gerald Fleming | Some Contents | Mudlark No. 56 (2015)