Homesick

By Sean Greenhill

She watches as he walks away from her, his stride confident, almost exuberant. Half way across the park, he turns back to see her still sitting in her car in the train station car park and smiles happily, shaking his head and waving to her.

Her face lights up in a broad grin in and she waves back before he turns around and continues on his way. Soon the slope and trees obscure her view, but her eyes follows him slowly turns as she imagines where he would be up to. Once or twice, she thinks that she catches a glimpse of his jacket, or his pants leg, but she doesn’t know whether she really has, or if it is just wishful thinking.

She lowers her window and lights a cigarette, her thoughts awash with image after image as her emotions ebb and flow, sometimes leading her thoughts, sometimes following them. She doesn’t try to understand or even follow her own track of thought, but instead she allows herself to be swept along like a leaf down a rushing stream.

Eventually she notices that her cigarette has burnt down to the butt and she shakes her head at her own silliness, not knowing how long she has been sitting like that. She puts the butt in the ashtray; starts the car and the radio lets her know that it isn’t late, but she knows what will be coming; delaying any longer will only make her more anxious.

Time to go.

Time to go forward.

She pulls out of the car park, begins to wind her way through the rabbit warren of back streets that led to the motorway. The traffic is stop–start; cars speed past her running red lights, weaving between the lanes, making her slam on the brakes. She feels her good mood slipping from her grasp, like summer rain evaporating, as she sees her own life reflected in the traffic.

She becomes apprehensive, frustrated with the other cars, wishing she could just drive through them, around them, ignore the rules the way that they do. But mostly she just wishes that she was not there at all, that she was anywhere else, that she just didn’t have to deal with the situation, didn’t even have to acknowledge its’ existence.

She stops at the next red light, knows that she is only has another left and right turn and she will be on the motorway, with its six lanes trailing off in the distance. Her next breath is slower, deeper and she begins to relax, the tension in her shoulders and neck easing. The lights change, she turns the corner and her smile returns as she puts the indicator on for the right hand turn and she sees that she has the green light.

‘Luck’s changing already,’ she says to herself.

Barely slowing for the corner, she accelerates down the on-ramp, hitting one hundred kilometres per hour, and she shots onto the motorway itself. She lowers her window, feels the breeze against her face, laughs as she leaves the traffic and madness behind her and faces the open road.

Everything is familiar yet strange. Normally she drove in this direction in the late afternoon or early evening when she would be returning from work at the end of another hard day. The road would be one long traffic jam, the three lanes packed with barely moving cars, and when she finally did get home she would still have dinner to cook, shirts to iron, the house to clean.

But now she is travelling against the flow. The cars in the three lanes coming towards her are crawling along, each vehicle with its’ own frustrated and angry face behind the wheel. Besides a few trucks, and the odd driver with no deadline to meet, her own lanes are almost empty.

Her hand moves to the cruise control. She rarely uses it, rarely has the opportunity to take advantage of what it can do and she feels almost naughty as she presses the button, hands over responsibility to the car and allows herself to relax.

There is rarely time in her normal day for herself, her own thoughts and passions. No time or inclination to allow herself to daydream, to indulge herself. But that is what she does now. With barely any effort, her hands ensure the car stays on course whilst she allows her mind to drift free and she thinks about the previous night.

She tries to remember when the night went from casual to romantic, but can only picture the first kiss, can feel his lips pressed against hers, soft yet so passionate, his tongue probing her mouth tentatively.

A different mouth after so many years.

And then they started touching and she remembers the feel of his strong hands against her flesh, exploring, fondling and her own hands responded, delighting in his hairless chest and kneading his firm behind without any guilt or worry.

She thinks of how they had kissed and fondled each other, not racing ahead, but savouring the experience, soaking each other up. How they had readily agreed to get pizza, rather than eat out, so they could get back to the house, and to each other, so much faster.

But the pizza had barely been touched and instead they had filled themselves with each other. The passion and yearning she’d felt had surprised her and she had embraced them both fully, opening her mind and body to experiencing the man that was so enticed and excited by her.

She remembers their sleep being disturbed time and time again by one or both of them touching, caressing, exciting the other. Remembers waking cradled in his arms, his bodies’ warmth, remembers the sense of contentment and peace that cloaked her body.

Looking up, she sees that she is only three exits from her own and reality strikes. She feels her tension return, feels herself hands start to shake and she quickly lights a cigarette to calm her nerves.

One more exit and she will almost be home.

Home to the husband who has agreed to a separation, but still has not moved out. Back to the whinging and moaning that has accompanied the years of neglect, lies and deception. Back to working out if there is enough money on her Cole’s card to buy food for the week.

Home to a husband who had an affair that produced two children to another woman. Back to the man who has just been fired for failing to turn up for work for two weeks straight. Back to paying off his indulgence of a thirty thousand dollar car, that she has to drive him around in because he is usually too drunk to drive himself.

She thinks of how she has always been meek, subservient for the sake of the children. How she has put up with his verbal attacks in front of other people. How she has always done his washing, ironed his shirts, driven him to and from the pub, and even worked for the money that he drank and put through the poker machines.

She pulls into the driveway; thinking about all the ways she has been put down, demeaned. The way she has been treated like a doormat, the fact that she has allowed herself to be treated that way. And she thinks about the night before, the happiness and security she felt, and how she is going to explain where she has been overnight.

The front door opens and her husband faces her.

‘Where have you been?’ he demands.

Perhaps her new man was right. When she had asked him what she should say, he’d been flippant and blunt as was his manner, but maybe he was right. Maybe it was better to take the front foot. Refuse to not be embarrassed or ashamed and put her husband in his place once and for all.

 ‘I stayed at Johns’,’ she answers as she strides past him. ‘And he fucked my brains out all night. Is that what you wanted to know?’

By the end of the day, her husband is out of her life – taking all her problems with him.

About the Author: Sean Greenhill

I began my career as a Debt Collector at 19 in the transport sector with COMET Express (a division of TNT). Over the following 20 years, I worked as a Debt Collector, Credit Officer, Accounts Analyst, Notice Server and Sub-Mercantile Agent with such international companies as DHL, Adecco, AGC, First Data International Pty Ltd, Qantas and Maersk. During this time, I gained experience in a wide variety of industries including both national and international freight forwarding, employment placement, telecommunications, property finance, and international financial services.

In the late 1990’s, I completed short-term contract collection roles, while completing a Bachelor of Arts, with a Psychology major, at Wollongong University, and worked as a pizza deliverer, cleaner, gatekeeper, bartender, lost property and parking officer, and as a deckhand on Great Barrier Reef cruises.

Publishing Credits

November 2008, ‘The Late Night Ride’, published in ‘Story to…Pod People’ (Issue 2) in Melbourne, Australia.

September 2009, ‘The Cat called Follow Me’, published in House of Horror (Issue 4) in the UK.

November 2009, ‘The Cat called Follow Me’, published in House of Horror Best of 2009 Anthology in the UK.

January 2010, ‘Cruisin’’, to be published in House of Horror (Issue 8) in the UK.