The Bus on Thursday

by Shirley Barrett

I was trying to be brave, you see. Which was pointless.

Also, his interpersonal skills were not tremendous. He seemed to think that if he was even one percent charming or warm or sympathetic, women would just completely fall in love with him, so he compensated for his sensational good looks by having zero empathy and being very direct, very clinical, like he didn’t have time for any nonsense.

And yes, I sound extremely negative and I get told off about this constantly, especially by Mum, but the fact is, I’m just being realistic.

Okay, so I get here after this six-hour drive, and the last thirty minutes were like the opening titles in The Shining except no snow, just kangaroos and lakes and rivers and mountains and the sun getting low and flaring through the windscreen—just all so exhilaratingly beautiful, I could actually feel my heart almost bursting in my chest.

I don’t mean to bother you, it’s just that the isolation can be so difficult. The feeling that the mountains are pressing in upon you.