I’m heading into town on the park and ride. It’s one of those buses that have their windows coated in a kind of tiny spotted film that makes my eyes ache when I try to look through it, so instead my gaze roams over the inside of the bus. Outside the rain is torrential, which perhaps explains the small number of passengers. There’s an elderly woman a few seats in front with her walking stick stuck out at an angle, just waiting to trip someone up. A lady with a pram is near the doors and her baby is grizzling while she pushes the pram to and fro. I’m near the back in my favourite spot, just made for people watching. Sadly, today there’s a distinct lack of people…
I catch my phone as it starts to slip off my lap and, as I do so, notice a square of paper in between the seats. Curious, I pluck it out and unfold it, smoothing the creases. The script is tight and cursive and the paper has an aged, handled feel. Unthinkingly, I begin to read.
The loss of your affection is more than my heart can bear, and worse still because I know categorically that it was I who caused it to happen. I plead, most sincerely, that you might forgive me. My actions were fool-hardy and impulsive and your timing most inopportune. I can explain should you give me the chance, for you did not see what you thought you saw. The prospect of a life without you feels hollow and bitter in my mind. Please allow me the chance to try and rectify my mistake.
I lower the letter from my eyes and then turn it over, searching for an answer that I know won’t come. What happened?