Hitching

Driven from Glasgow to somewhere, somewhere probably in Northumbria, she'd been bombarding me with hours of irrelevant conversation and irritating questions. Treating me with over familiarity and concern, like I was her son.    So from somewhere, somewhere north of Newcastle, until now I have been sleeping, enjoying my disjointed dreams and avoiding her. We're here. Here being Woolley Edge services. Here for coffee.    Back from the gents she's already at the table with a tray of cups and pastries. She looks poised, eager to start again.    In public it's going to be the same. I can see it in her face. An affront to the beauty of real strangers. So I drink the free coffee, answer, eat the free food, answer, and then I make my excuses. I say that I appreciate the lift, the coffee and of course, the food.    But back at me, she says seductively, “how much did you appreciate the ride and the coffee and of course the food?”    This new twist angers me. I want to say something nasty but stop myself because I know within a few hours I'll be someone else's passenger in the congested tides of the M1. Dozing again. Dull engine-sounds lapping against my consciousness. Where sleep washes over like love. I pick up my bag, thank her politely again and walk off.

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