Somewhere Near Here

ｊｏｎａｇｏｌｄ

chapter 4

j o n a g o l d

Clara

It'd been what seemed like an hour of moping before I dragged my body upright from its foetal position and traipsed to the bathroom to where my phone lay.

14:23.

Oh. It hadn't been long; only fifteen minutes. That's another thing about loneliness; time goes by so slowly. You want the time to fill up; God, you really do, but counting down the hours is useless if you can't even get beyond the third minute.

5 missed calls.

They'd all been from Connor; I felt a momentary pang of guilt shudder through, though it was quickly replaced by shyness. I opened up our conversation and paused, unsure of what to type. And when I'd finally thought of something to say, I wasn't even sure if I was going to be capable of sending it - I'd never been one to voluntarily ask to go out to socialise.

[draft] Wanna meet up?

I'd hit send before I could begin to regret. And then I trudged back to bed without a second thought when I realised that a reply probably wouldn't come back soon. I began to contemplate the possibilities of what he might say, but then mentally kicked myself - it was the perfect time to complete unfinished work. In fact, as I awaited a response, I opened up the long-due job application that sat at the bottom of the tool bar and began to type. It was for a local restaurant (something I needed a surprising amount of qualifications for), and it was to be a waitress. My hopes weren't high; in society as it was, getting a job was easier said than done. But if I were to begin to hope that I could stay here, what with the meagre funding my parents provided, I was going to have to work.

An hour forward, I'd completed four more applications without much hope - they were all low-paying part-time jobs that I'd hopefully be able to manage between classes, and if I could have at least two, then my rent would be secured. I checked my phone for the time (though really, I was probably mainly curious to see if Connor had replied yet.)

15:42.

Break time. (And, for good measure, no new texts or missed calls.) I sat back in the scratchy wooden chair and stretched, tipping the seat back a little so that it hung precariously, suspended by my balance.

And then a craving for caffeine kicked in, and with a groan, I remembered that I hadn't brought my old coffee machine to the apartment. I considered my options. It wasn't late; only the mid-afternoon, but then, I didn't know the area well; the only coffee shop I knew of was The Four O'clock House ('for kids who don't wanna go home just yet', the shop's sign read). And Connor hadn't replied. And Connor worked there. And I wasn't sure if I could run the risk of bumping into him (again).

Oh, ƒuck it.

I tossed on my coat (just in case) and grabbed my travel card, then forced my feet into a pair of old trainers and headed out, away at last.

The bus stop was vacant when I approached it; I propped myself against the plastic walls. My eyes surveyed the bus times overhead, struggling to focus on the bright orange LEDs - because, in all my panic (quite literally) I'd deserted my glasses; a necessity; my see-thing; my anchor. (Perhaps that was an exaggeration.) With reluctance, I pulled myself closer to examine the screen. Seven minutes. God, that was a long wait — compared to London, anyhow.

I eyed the shops across the street. A salon, a barber, a newsagents, a block of tacky flats with a semblance to my own; neat little buildings aligned in a neat little row; no errant strands; nothing special... so achingly mundane.