A Blog Waits (Or Not)

The room is clinically untidy. The floor is shiny but littered, the seats unforgiving but cleanly painted. It is a place for mindless sitting, of checking watches and keeping an eye on departure time display units. The scratched handrests glisten dryly. As a bin there is a crinkled plastic bag stretched over a rigid frame, it's see-through and only half empty, and there's a carelessly compressed Ribena carton caught in the folds.

LaceOverSand watches, I don't think she ever really bothers waiting for anything. She sits on the windowsill, self-entertained. Her hands rock, playing cats' cradle with spare bootlaces tied impetuously together, and as her fingers weave one over the other she spares a thought for the overweight and slightly balding man sat in the corner. He has a half-drunk bottle of Sprite and might just be peaking out from behind his briefcase to watch her seemingly boring routine. Finger over, duck, catch the thread, hands part.

Her boots should be muddying her jeans the way she sits cross-legged, feet tucked up under thighs. The arrangement should be too oversized for the improvised window seat to be comfortable, but somehow she's perfectly happy.

She ignores the girl with the torn carrier bag and over-priced water bottle.