The School Bus

the morning is a performance we both sign off on. toast, the smell of burnt butter, the kids chewing with their mouths open. we pass the salt, we ask about gym kit, we do the small talk because it keeps the floor steady. then the yellow bus idles at the curb. a rusted chassis spitting black diesel smoke into the frost, gulping them down, gone.

she pulls on her boots. wraps the wool scarf twice around her throat. the wind off the street is throwing wet leaves against the glass. out the door at eight. no delay. ten past eight she’s at the roundabout. fifteen minutes past, the car park. then the concrete stairs, the lift, her desk.

thirty minutes flat. a machine with gears.

“Let me know you’re there,” I tell her. a text. a single ping on the kitchen counter to signal safety.

safety for her. safety for me.

the ping means she won’t turn the car around because she forgot her notebook or left her keys on the sideboard. it means the house belongs to the rot now. the quiet can start.

the walk to the corner shop has two different alibis. the daily paper. a pint of blue-top milk we don’t need. the man behind the counter doesn’t look at me when he slides the bottle across. clear glass, the little silver crown on the label. industrial fuel.

nine-fifteen. three ice cubes crack under the pour. the first swallow is just heat. then the edges of the room start to blur, the hard lines of the kitchen cabinets softening into something bearable. there is a window here, maybe ninety minutes where a line of prose might actually land, before the fog rolls in.

the yellow bus comes back at three. then we clean the glasses.

nine-fifteen, first pour.
five hours to sober up
before the bus.