I Unlove You Read Free Page A

shuffle soon arrived and introduced me once more to
this daily commute.
    As
the train slows, my feet clench and fingers tighten around the old
metal pole inches from the door. In a somewhat clumsy stop,
I ’ m rocked backwards into the beefy man behind, his
sturdy frame unmoved by my slender weight. Within seconds, the door
opens and I ’ m met by a cooler,
but still lovely, spring breeze.
    In this light everything looks
like an old movie, when film was shot in film. That faded, somewhat
washed out style, the greens on the trees teal, the blue in the sky
periwinkle, and the golden yellow from a car striking as it
reflects the sun hovering above a nearby warehouse.
    Everyone is in such a rush, just like during lunch. They
practically sprint toward cars waiting to pick them up, down the
hill to food and a ‘ welcome home ’ kiss, or maybe,
like me, to the pub, where a necessary beer awaits after another
humdrum day.
    I
can ’ t say I ’ ve ever been one to
rush, and like me, B likes to take her time. Why drive when you can
walk? Why run when you can walk? Why sit when you can walk? Growing
up, my father showered me with stories about how he walked
everywhere. “ I once got so drunk I woke up in a
family ’ s cellar, and walked three miles home in the
snow, ” he told me after I asked him to drive me to
Joey ’ s.
    “ How did you end up in their
cellar? ” I asked. “ And what ’ s that got to do
with driving me to Joey ’ s? ”
    “ To this day, I have no idea.
They weren ’ t impressed,
though, ” he said, looking past me and smiling. “ And if I can wake up
hungover, in a strange family ’ s cellar, and walk
three miles in the snow, you can walk to Joey ’ s. ”
    My
father ’ s old stories usually feature
snow.
    But where I once fought the
thought of walking, I now embrace it. I love its clarity, and you
cannot treasure this if you dash past, like the woman to my left,
her phone tight to her ear; or the man marching to my right,
flinging his arms like a North Korean soldier.
    I
suppose this is why Joey ’ s constant reminder
of yesteryear ’ s dream lingers. How
easy it must be to lose yourself to the rush, the vim, the hectic
nothing. I hate the idea of ending up like them, but maybe
it ’ s already begun. Maybe accepting such a job is when
the chaos takes hold.
    Nestled neatly within a valley, Sowerby Bridge loses the
sunlight before most surrounding villages. The gentle slope into
the heart of the place where I grew up already steals light and
warmth. Hazy colour remains, but for us valley folk, darkness
awaits. Passing the local swimming pool on my left, which used to
be a market, and an odds-and-ends shop on my right, which used to
be nothing, I cross the road and pass over the bridge my
hometown ’ s named after.
    I
love crossing it on a day like today, as a burst of wind mixes with
my hair and mushes my messy fringe into my forehead.
It ’ s not exactly a trip to the beach, where the sea air
cleanses lungs and skin, but it ’ s as close as
I ’ ll
get. It ’ s amazing how I hate the wind of winter, but
treasure the breeze of spring. They ’ re both the same,
after all, but oh-so-different.
    Rounding the final corner, the pub where I spent most my
early adulthood stands in waiting. Mine and Joey ’ s
obsession with this place started long before we were able to
drink. It ’ s where we played our first acoustic gig,
brought in the New Year somewhere other than my house, and plotted
world domination as our two fathers chatted at the
bar.
    “ In the future, normal guys like
us will build record labels without the need for big offices and
hierarchies, ” Joey instructed when we were thirteen. “ The
internet is all we need, brother. And music. Real music. Music
that ’ s better than sex! ”
    Sipping lemonade, I nodded and shrugged. “ How do you
know what sex feels like? ”
    “ What ’ s that got to
do with anything? ”
    “ How do you know if music is
better than it, if you ’ ve