My apple is running away from me – by Jennifer Compton
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I have made an appointment to correct all of my compensations with my McTimoney
Therapist called Julian in Frankston South. I live in Carrum so it’s a train to Frankston
then the 772 Eliza Heights bus which only goes once an hour and, confusingly, travels
in a big loop so it takes longer to get back than it does to get there. It’s a one-way bus.
I take a seat in the train behind a young woman with a cloud of dark hair. She is sitting
in profile to me because her phone is attached, significantly, to the wall of the carriage.
And she is using her phone as a mirror to titivate her discreet makeup. ‘Oh is this what
we are doing now?’ — I think to myself. She is sporting a loose-sleeved, ecru, cotton
pullover. Twined around her neck is a scarf fashioned from cappuccino-coloured wool.
It may be hand-crafted. It sits atop her shoulders, a pliable afterthought.
As the train pulls into Frankston she disengages her phone from the wall with a twitch
of her hand. ‘Is it magnetism?’ — I think to myself. I walk behind her to the turnstiles.
She goes left to who-knows-where and I go right to the 772 bus stop.
Frankston South is one of those lonely, leafy suburbs. I can hear many birds calling as I
walk from Overport Road down to Julian’s clinic in Derinya Drive. They are Australian
birds so they are loud. Up in the treetops, up in the sky. But where are all of the people?
Then I hear a door slam shut in the depths of one of the setback houses, then the sound
of a pool pump, chugging grimly. And here comes a solitary car, nosing its way slowly
along the middle of the road.
Julian cranks up the slab so that I am within reach. He attends to my troubled body with
messianic fervour. He yanks at my left leg with startling effect. He presses in close. I can
feel his hip nudge me as he gets purchase for a tricky negotiation. And up and down my
spine until I groan with relief. First the headache in my frontal lobes and then a starburst
of energy soars out of my forehead.
I’m released back into Frankston South. Because Julian has done everything that needed
to be done he has gone over time. But what is time, anyway? I’ve missed the next circuit
of the hourly bus. I turn my nose vaguely in the direction of Frankston and begin walking
downhill. Or is it even walking? This foot after foot ceremony. I seem to be perambulating
like a loose democracy of cells.
Ah! There is the bus shelter outside the gates of the Aged Care Home. I shall wait for
the next hourly bus like patience on a monument. I shall stoke my engine by nibbling
on the travelling apple I always carry with me. I reach out for my bag but I am clumsy,
perhaps because the bench is on a slant to make up for the downhill slope, and my eyes
are out of kilter. I knock my bag onto the ground. It sprawls, unzippered mouth gaping.
And my Pink Lady bounces vigorously out into the gutter and makes her bid to escape.
She skips. She leaps. She is going hell for leather.
‘My apple is running away from me!’ — I think urgently to myself.
I jump to my feet, but too late. She angles right and there is the slotted entrance to the
stormwater drain that exactly accommodates her. She skims through by the skin of her
teeth. No holding her back! She disappears into the void with a hollow plunk. I can tell
by the echo that it is a long way down. She is gone. She is gone for good.
I can shrug off loss. I scoop the spillage back into my capacious bag, sling it across my
shoulder, and set off, one foot after another. Nobody is about. Nobody is ushering a dog
around the block, nobody is checking their letterbox, nobody is on their knees, weeding.
Not a solitary car goes by, captained by a forward-looking alignment of arms and head,
a Lego figurine.
Downhill I walk, downhill, downhill. Towards the curve where Overport Drive divides
into two. I am gliding like a good one, leaning into the sly buffets of whatever is coming
at me in the terms of atmosphere. The familiar suck of gravity is magnanimous.
And around the corner she comes, the young woman with the cloud of dark hair. She is
panting uphill, one foot after another. Her eyes are narrowed, chin clenched, intent upon
wherever she is going. She is making good time, but perhaps she is running a little late.
The coffee-coloured scarf has loosened so it coils and undulates in her slipstream.
Believe me, I am as surprised as anyone.
I plant myself. I put a peremptory hand on my hip. I address her in ringing tones. ‘I feel that
I must remark upon the co-incidence!’ She stops in her tracks and takes a step back. Brushes
her hair away from her forehead. Darts a shrewd, sideways glance from under her eyelashes.
She shudders with a giggle. And pertly taps the slim silhouette of her phone in her hip pocket.
She remembers me. But as for this second encounter, she is cool with it. These things happen.
She swirls her left hand with a gesture that intimates — ‘Now I have to go. My life is waiting
for me.’ And away she goes, heading off uphill, faster and faster, until she is gone.
I think to myself — ‘Well, I don’t know what to think.’ ▼
Image: Ketut Subiyanto - Pexels
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