Results Are Only To Be Imagined

Losing becomes a pleasure when it's guaranteed against hope. That's what he said ~ a loser I sat next to on a bus heading to the north where the light of the heavens needed no shine. His mouth was dripping chocolate. He told me his name was John Crisps. He opened a bag of Roast Chicken and said Wonder is Golden. I looked around for another seat. None. Four hundred miles to go.

I like losing, I told him. I'd be confused if I won, and he bit the top off a Galaxy bar. Where are you going? I said. I'm going home to die, he said. I've only got a year. After saying sorry, he said, why be sorry? The results are only to be imagined. I'm getting off here, he said.

I watched him from the bus as he headed up this path. He turned and shouted to me ~ I'll see you again. The bus pulled out. He had left a packet of Salt and Vinegar behind. I ate them. The bus TV was showing a football match. A player was crying. They showed a picture of his mum in the crowd. She was crying. The sky was clear. The sun would be down soon. There was a river painted on to the land, a white stripe ran down a mountain side.