Transit

He was supposed to propose as we ascended, some fancy restaurant making the city small. It would be over oysters on ice, box hidden in trembling breast pocket. Diamonds and polite applause with a side of light distaste. It’s rude to grovel before the hors d’oeuvres. But the taxi hadn’t shown and we were late. Not Carrie Bradshaw late, making transit and white tulle sexy, but late late and we were crammed on the Hammersmith and City, sweat dripping as we pooled between knife-edge bags and kids with mobster violins. With metronomic ease thoughts drifted to lost werewolves… old tiles in green and flesh… coarse tartan covering a pain of springs… wheels screeching on hawkish curves. And we swayed, a wave down ten graffitied shells, motion joining us. Light flickered and chunked, just do it, I whispered, just do it here on bubble-gummed floor, with vacant stares, illuminated phone faces, ripe mundanity. Here, I will say yes, as Coke can rolls the aisle, chimes as sweet as any church bell, as darkness sparks a faulty wire, so long as we’re together and no one cares, no one cares save us, no one cares.

Zoë Davis is an emerging writer from Sheffield, England. She’s a stubborn FND sufferer and fights what her body says she can’t do by playing wheelchair rugby league. In her free time she writes poetry and prose, and especially enjoys exploring the interaction between the fantastical and the mundane, with a deeply personal edge to her work. You can find her words in publications such as: Ink Sweat & Tears, Strix, Roi Fainéant, Dust, and Red Ogre Review. You can also follow her on X @MeanerHarker where she’s always happy to have a virtual coffee and a chat.