Last Stop

[There's a bit of swearing]

I can't believe it’s her. About eight seats in front of me. I can smell her perfume, Marc Jacobs’ Daisy drifting down the aisle. OMG, I gave her that and she’s still wearing it. My foot starts tapping a hundred miles an hour, like it has free will.

I haven't seen her in, what, five years? Six years? Who am I kidding? I know exactly how long, almost down to the day.

My heart is beating so hard. She looks amazing. At least, the back of her head looks amazing. Her hair is longer, disappearing into the back of the bus seat but it's the same bouncy, glossy, luscious jet-black hair I used to get lost in.

Wait, she's turning. What if she sees me, recognises me? I've put on weight. I slouch down in my seat, but she doesn't turn. She leans into the window. She’s probably worn-out after a night of partying. That's how we met, after all. Bumping and grinding at the club. She'd been there with girlfriends but she left with me. I knew she was for me when she pushed me away at her door after a slurpy kiss.

“Not tonight. Not like this, when we barely know each other. Call me tomorrow.”

I liked her mix of confidence and shyness, her not-quite chasteness after what was an obvious lust between us.

And so it began. I called her. I was 26, she was 28; more mature than me, taller than me, better looking than me, more experienced in bed than me, and she earned more than me. I moved in three weeks later and we stayed together seven years.

We've been apart for seven years. What symmetry. My mistake. Let's just say it was a big one, one I've regretted every day since. Sid, Kieran and Nev, my squad, my downfall, took me out for my 33rd birthday.

“Don’t be late, I’ve got a special surprise for you.”

“I'll only be a couple of hours, babe.”

I got so drunk I could hardly stand.

“The sex meant nothing.”

I pleaded with her, hit myself in the face, ripped my T-shirt, clawed my chest.

“Babe, don't throw this away.”

Her red nail polish glinted and her green eyes spat.

“Piss off.”

She found me out by lipstick on my collar, how fucking cliched is that?

“Just get the fuck out Grayson. Take your shitty toaster and your shitty shirts and your shitty lies and get the fuck out of my flat.”

Now fate has brought us together. I didn't see her get on the Number 8 from Rovetown. She appeared, as if by magic, in the seat behind the driver. Someone else is sitting next to her but by her body language against the window I don't think she knows him. If he wasn't sitting there I'd march right up and settle in beside her. Wouldn't I? My eyes slide down my body. I'm wearing one of those shitty shirts, all sunsets and parrots.

The bus pulls in at Rosemary Street and about a dozen people pile off, but not the guy next to her. My finger drums the metal back of the seat in front of me. Red Corvette plays on loop in my head. We moved and swayed to that one, our bodies not quite touching but electricity dancing between us. She felt it, too. One stupid mistake after seven years. She shifts in her seat, momentarily dipping her head. I wonder if she's thinking of me. From this angle it looks like she's holding her phone. Maybe she still has photos of us on there. She's probably looking through them now, wishing it could have been different.

Four more passengers disembark, this time at Anglesey Street. The seat next to her is vacant but though I want to move, though this is clearly meant to be, my body is glued. Come on come on come on come on come on. Too late. A woman with shopping bags has taken my spot. My love squeezes further into the window, tucks some hair behind an ear. I breathe her in, intoxicated. I know every part of her. She'll be smiling at her new seatmate, her lips parting, her right eyebrow rising higher than her left, her left dimple deeper than her right.

The next stop is Arraignment Square, my stop. I don’t move. For the next 20 minutes the bus rumbles its way from the city to the edge of the countryside. She must be going all the way to Tandy’s End. That's strange, because she used to live - we used to live - in her flat over shops in the middle of town.

Hang on, didn't her auntie used to live out this way? That's it, she must be going to see her auntie. I remember meeting her auntie. Laura, her name was. Nice lady, good laugh. She looked a bit like my love. She had similar bouncy hair but Laura's was a faded version of what I see in front of me today.

Tandy’s End is only two stops away. My body is betraying me. I wipe sweat from my face and hope the bright blue parrots hide the stains under my arms. The foot tapping and finger drumming is building to a crescendo but I can’t seem to stop. I better get ready. Lucky I have deodorant in my backpack. There’s only a few people left on the bus so no one notices as I duck down and smother my armpits with Nivea Men then drag a comb through my hair, suck in my stomach.

The woman with the shopping bags gets off at Bull’s Corner, the stop before Tandy’s End. It’s just us on the bus. The driver pipes up, “last stop, folks.” I get up; she gets up. I walk up the aisle, gulping, mouth dry, rehearsing my line, “it’s good to see you, how have you been, I’m so sorry.” The bus shudders and she’s thrown off her feet. I grab an arm to steady her and she turns. Oh God, I think I’m going to be sick. It’s not her.