Tales of the Road

On the way:

An old lady sits wide-eyed with fear at the fluttering coach-station pigeon.
She wishes her husband was still with her at moments like these.
Not consciously - her grief is buried beneath years of 'getting on with it'. It makes the pain bearable.

But right now the layers are sheared through and her vulnerability shines from her eyes.
For just over a second she feels totally alone.

A stop-off on the way back.

Purpose-free we amble through the brand name orgy. Refugees from our coach we are countrymen.
Bladders emptied and overprices scoffed at or begrudged we are faced with an activity vacuum.
I see it first. Words aren't needed. An indicating glance and a nod and the game is on.

The game of the future.

Pucks, air, aggression and a digital scoring system.
What snooker wants to be. What RoboCop would play. Air-fucking-hockey. Hockey of the air. Yes. We are men.

He looks weak. Insincere smile and a hat he thinks makes him a 'character'.

"I'm going to fucking beat you," I say.

"Wha-at?" he laughs. Ha ha ha, I think.

"I. Am going. To FUCKING BEAT YOU."

"Okay," he smile/frown combos.

"I'm fucking brilliant at air hockey. I am fucking AMAZING. You are going to lose. That is the best you will be able to do.

"Erm... right." He 'ermed'. I have broken him.

50p later, it begins. I slam the puck into his goal. 1-0.

"Yes! Fuck you!" I bellow at his face.

2-0

"I am fucking brilliant! What did I tell you?"

He pauses, sighs, and walks back to the coach.
The sound of the air still being pushed through the table a soundtrack to his defeat.

On the way home he avoids my gaze. Most of the time.
Because I start making noises so he looks at me and I mouth "Winner", pointing at myself and
"Loser" pointing at him. He doesn't look at me again. I consider a campaign of notes, but I have work to get on with.