Caught in a Thunderstorm
The Russell Square tube station has always been an amusing spot. I stood there once, smoking a cigarette. A typical reveller walked past; carrying heels in her hand, walking testily, clutching a bottle of wine. A rosé, I thought. I lit another cigarette, thinking of the time when I had tried running up the stairs in the station to prove my fitness after an injury. I lost that wager. I decided against smoking a cigarette. My call went unanswered again. A shaggy old man walked up to me and asked for a light. I decided to smoke one more. The next one followed. I looked at my watch. A child and her mother walked out of the station. The mother gave in to the nagging and returned the mask. The child lisped, “The only verdict is vengeance, a vendetta; held as a votive, not in vain.” I took those words back home.