799. one way

Mairi would take the train back to town. And at the station, which would be awash in unfocused color, a blurred brimming of mainly dark hues, she would purchase a one-way ticket. The sounds of the terminal would be clear, of wheel and rail and steam and torque against the muted backdrop of conversations murmuring like sweet summer grass. Her movements, she thought, would be slow, her hands gloved, and she would wear a brown felt hat to match her long coat, neatly buttoned top to bottom. All in order. The Chatelaine words echoed. All in order. Let action shape thought. Keep moving. Go through your progression. Yet, those images; of her arm hanging limp against her side; the look of the agent on asking if there would be a return; her mumbled reply; the sliding of her passage under the glass; all would seem a little too much like Bravo leaving Hyneria. There would be departure. But no return. As there was no appetite, no desire to engage, to speak of things as if they could be spoken. So she would watch the endless flowing into and out of the station. She would watch clocks ticking the seconds into minutes. Thoughts of Em painting would come to mind. Best not too many strokes she would say. Paint neither too thick nor too thin. Apply with a even sweep of hand across the surface lightly. Moving. Always moving. A place, Em would say, far, far from thought.