Reader age rating 17+
A cautionary tale of love, mathematics and the innocuous.
Tracy was already waiting at the stop in front their house. She’d asked John if he’d remembered to pick up something to eat on the way back from work and he told her he’d forgotten. She said it didn’t matter but her words did little to hold back the gale of unease that rocked John’s already shaky foundation. When she asked him why he didn’t drive, he lied and made up some excuse about the car’s distributor and when she asked him what bus he was on, he lied again.
When the bus got close to his house, John didn’t press the bell. He thought about it. He even twitched his finger as if he were anxiously waiting for the right time. But the bus drove right past his house and right past his wife.
It continued in a direction which he hadn’t traveled in many years, into a part of town that he hadn’t seen since he was a boy. And as he stared out the window, seeing the lines of sycamore trees whose thick straggling roots, broke apart the footpath as if it were a poorly sewn seam, John’s mind started to recall memories that like this part of town, he had long since forgotten.
He remembered how when he was seven, he and his friends had thought that these trees were gargantuan and wanted to climb them, and to take nest up high on the thick overhanging branches, kicking your feet and spitting on the roves of the cars that passed below, that was the greatest feat imaginable.
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