The smell of hot metal lodges in my throat. I keep thinking I can taste it. Loud, grinding sounds hurt my ears. Squashed up, sardines in a tin, the heat and humidity are unbearable. A mix of smells invade my nostrils: perfume, body odour, warm food, greasy hair. I know you’re there. I can feel your presence, your eyes boring into me. Have you followed me or is it chance? My heart beats faster. I feel sick. I have to escape or I will collapse. Then the bell dings, the doors open and you say – ‘Night, Sandra, see you tomorrow.’
© Vicky Newham 2012. All rights reserved.
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