Suitably pink case
The sound of my suitcase was giving me away. The pavements rattled with residential coyness, as the wheels bounced down and over the cracks. My feet carefully placing themselves on a curated pallet of grey. Right on a pale slab, left foot on a grainer one. Right foot on a dark one, to balance it out and so forth. It meant that the bottom of my feet were painted the same shade of grey on either side. I counted up the colours at whatever speed I was travelling. Taking in the pavement more than anything else. Just the pavement and the sound of my incongruous suitcase. Head down. Even though no-one is around. I imagine the ears of each house perking up to the rattling sound, like brickwork in the sun, creaking awake on a spring day in April. Yawning itself to presence, after a long cemented sleep. It was grey now, like the colour underfoot, despite it being time for the sun to rise, it was doing it in shrouded secrecy. The sky got lighter but not brighter, and the clouds washed around the houses like dusty water. I lost count of the colours and had to start again. The bouncing wheels had a well-deserved rest in silence as I found my footing. I’ve noticed people care less about noises than I do. My ears seemed to peak before everyone else’s and it sends hot blood down my limbs like I’m ready to lash out. I never have, but that’s what it feels like. Like I’m ready to fight. I hope that’s a good sign, I hope it means I’ll survive. But I’ll probably be too busy counting colours on the soles of my shoes. I’d overpacked which meant the bounces jolted my arm away from me when the gaps were too large. My elbow doing overtime, ligament cushioning bone touching muscle. Muscle flopping passively, in submission to the godly suitcase. Overtly pink all over, not to my taste, it was a gift. And it sends out completely the wrong message to anyone I travel nearby. I like pink but not in this texture. It’s like a snakey - suede. It doesn’t suit me but I get compliments on it. Probably because of the fact it doesn’t suit me. People feel they have to mention it because their surprise is overwhelming them. In their heads their horrified how I don’t match up and so they blurt out the first thing that comes into their head. ‘I love your case.’
I stop, to change arms despite knowing my left has less stamina than the right. The pavement has changed to smaller, creamier slabs. It’s less important that the colours add up because they’re closer in shades. I look up as the wind blows on past me, dry orange leaves race Mcdonalds chip packets to the top of the road before swirling and making their way back again, knocking the sides of my laced-up boots.
They’d been done up loosely, because I knew I wanted to tuck my feet up on the bus. 8 hours of beautiful Scotland and then motorway, motorway, motorway. More grey under neath, wheels bigger and stronger, carrying me and my case down the country. Like falling down a pinball machine, only somewhat safer and with more accuracy. Following paths laid out for us. Tracing down the veins of Britain with the edge of a finger and stopping just before the sea splashes ahead of us. Teetering at the cliff edge of Brighton. Tasting the salt of another sea’s air.
My case hits a curb and my hand surrenders it’s grip. Lazily, the case falls on the grassy verge like a stubborn toddler, too tired to walk. I’d lost concentration, had been looking at the sky that was promising to break with a reluctant slither of sun, had missed the curb. It could’ve been me on the floor, slamming my knees and hands onto the ground. Wrists buckling under pressure. The slap of the case on the ground, pulses through me for a couple of seconds. My arm still stretched out, pleading with it to hold on. Just 5 more minutes. It didn’t want go, it wanted to stay in the quiet, bedded down in the grass. Packed up commuter comes face to face with nature. Beady wet strands of grass squashed underneath, tight with hope and spring the moment I move it. I bend down to take the handle, but my legs swing round, my knees tucking up and I sit on it. I sit completely on it and stop. There is no sound other than my own breath meeting the air. I could cry it’s so still. I think about the bus leaving it’s last stop and making it’s way to where I should be, with it’s early rising passengers already on board, cases stowed neatly away by the driver. I stay still. I think about tucking my feet under myself on the bus and my head against the window and the idea seems do-able again. I think about hitting London like a hammer bluntly going at the end of a nail, splintering’s of cars, and horns and too many people, dully tapping away at their own shrill lives. I sit still. I sit still. I wonder how long I can sit still before the itch to drive forward propels me. Scratching and scratching until my eczema flairs up to the surface. I hold it. The stillness. The air surrounding me landing and holding too. I let my weight sink right down into my folded clothes, neatly positioned next to each other. I allow myself to glance up to the sky. My sight shoots through the air into the clouds and I see myself from there. Pink suitcase glaringly obvious. My pale round face like a fragment of moon, burning with agony. I see myself in the stillness. I see myself, for the first time. I stay in the clouds, staring. Curious. Frowning deeply to make out my own facial expression. Placid. Content. Peaceful. And the case, it suits me.