At the end

I have this fantasy.

When it’s all done, when it’s all over and we’re eventually stood down, you and I…I know we’re not supposed to but it would be you and I. We’d load up the old minibus. Burn anything else that doesn’t fit. You would stop straightening your hair. I would stop bleaching mine. We’d go to the old house and dig up the ‘treasure chest’ and take only what was ours. Then we’d fill the minibus with petrol and drive.

Along the way, we’d have to stop. You’ve never been that far from the city, so you’d want to stop. And I would want to show you it all. We’d eat at cafes and sleep in Holiday Inns. I’d point out the places I’d been, where the good things were done.

You’d take chips off my plate and curl around me at night. We’d take showers together and you’d stroke my wet hair as I drove. You’d buy postcards for the others and I’d lick the stamps. You’d hold the map and I would drive.

We’d drive forever. Over hills and through forests. Cross the country in the beat up minibus full of good memories. At night, we’d lie on the mattress in the back. I’d point to the stars through the open roof and you’d tell me all about them. The weather would be good, and when it wasn’t, we wouldn’t notice. We wouldn’t have to notice anything other than ourselves ever again. We could just focus on us. What we wanted to eat. What we found funny. How long we decided to stay in bed.

And eventually we’d get to the end of the world. The top. I’d park the minibus on the promenade and the first thing you’d see when you woke up in the morning, the first thing you would hear- the birds, the spray, the whistle of the wind.

That’s where we’d go. Where we would stay. Wake up every morning to the water and think, yes. Yes. We did it. We made it out.

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