Wishing

Glasgow. Knowing its topography was another fragment of home flaking and falling away. A flinty piece of Edinburgh sat in my pocket, too: the lighter one of the comedians gave me in the courtyard of Lord Bodo’s, the only one I hadn’t lost or left behind. Green plastic. I took it out now, stepping off the bus for a smoke break, the wind throwing the tails of my coat about and biting my skin. A headache squatted behind my eyes like a toad.