Living In An Old Body

 

M. is old now. He needs to make this the last stop. The town he will at some time die in. He himself is, repulsed is it?, certainly put off, by the old casings humans end up inhabiting. He has a modest list of girls he loved unrequitedly when young, people he has carried around with him all his life; he has another modest list of later unrequited loves and has carried them around also; and he has a few requited loves gone wrong, one of those also amongst these people carried around in his head unbidden yet always there. 

And he doesn't ever want to be seen by them in this old casing of his. Nor of course does he ever want to see them in their older unfamiliar and yes uglier casings. And his work - it was with almost exclusively the young. Why would anyone be happy to be caught out in an old body by still young people who used to know him? 'Hey look, isn't that old guy . . . it's not M. is it?'

The problem is this final stop. He is staring down at a small town. The problem is exactly that. It is small. It is small and it is one of the most chosen holiday towns in his land. It will happen, perhaps no more than once it is true, that a bit of this past life will suddenly walk straight towards him along the harbour promenade. 

Of course it is one of those pains that can be made less likely, but at what cost? Haunting the unfrequented corners of this town? Pointless being here then. Developing the long-distance defensive eyesight of a hunted animal? It wouldn't be such a problem if this were not the only place in the land he particularly desires to make his last stop. Parked-up for the moment on the lane, he gazes down on the roof-tops. The engine is still on. The old Jaguar waits, its engine steady and completely disinterested.