Reward

I’m listening to a conversation on the morning train.  She sounds desperate, holding onto herself so tight, but trying to appear fun and upbeat. 

Eager to please. 

Over-eager.

He is calm.  Quiet – I can barely hear his words.

She is monopolising the conversation.  Her voice strained, her words too precise as if anything less than this high-wire act would render her ordinary.  Like us.

Like her parents, whom she holds up for ridicule. 

First her mother, berated for her fatalism and lack of verve – for her addiction to morning TV.  So meaningless, we hear.

Then her father:  so serious and fatherly, though Electra is clearly at play.

There comes a point, it seems, where all that will do is a bloody scene in the kitchen.  Designer knives plunged lovingly through the ribs of parents who have served their purpose, brought comfort and a good education, and who can now only shame and hinder.

The train stops. 

Backwell.

They ease into the flow of chattering youth.

Sixth-formers.

Hope he gets his reward.