Rocío Grimaldo

Three different POVs exercise

"That Ephemeral Thing Called Trust"

He pressed his freckled forehead against the window as the bus managed the curves of the downhill leg of Treliever Road and then raced through the center of Penryn. The town was just awakening, the morning chill still enveloped it.

What, what, what, what was he going to do, he thought as the bus shook. Hospital bill, buying the house, all out of the question now. They would have to continue renting until…until what? His pale, freckled hands rubbed his unshaven face. He couldn’t sue him. No money. And his signature was there. Could he prove that he signed under duress? He had not been under duress. He thought he was his brother. He trusted him. Bloody bastard, bloody fool. He shouldn’t even be taking the bus. Only 500 pounds in his savings account to last…who knew. A job was imperative. A job for the baby. A job for his family. His family. Fuck! Dazed and red-eyed, he looked absentmindedly to the front of the bus.

She was wearing a red dress and an uncontrollable smile. After finding a seat, she crossed her legs and leaned sideways against the bus window. Still with that secret grin. He called her last night. The Penryn marina passed by, but she could only see his green eyes and his crooked mouth. How things can change from one day to another. Suddenly he called her. How sweet was that. And all this time she thought it was a one-sided crush. Today he is going to declare his love for her. She knows it. And then she would do the same. She would recount how her feelings for him blossomed and grew and… His stop was coming up. Giddy, giddy, giddy. She ran a hand through her hair.

The bus screeched to a halt at the stop after nearly running over the people waiting for it.

A man in his twenties, the first person to get on the bus, glared at the driver while he searched for his wallet. As he patted the front of his jeans, he reminded himself he had to go to an ATM. He only had about two pounds, just enough to pay for the fare… did he? Wallet not here, left pocket, no: jacket pocket, no. Where the hell?! Retracing: bus stop, flat, Julie’s flat, kitchen, toilet, room. Last night, Amanda’s flat, Amanda’s kitchen, Amanda’s bed…

There was Amanda, in red.

He forced a smile while he looked in his jacket pockets one more time. The driver glared at him. Come here, he mouthed to Amanda. She rushed to his side and produced the 50p in his hand like if he were a saint. Such faith, he thought. Suddenly he saw a blur of freckles and then blackness.