50 Reasons to Say Goodbye Read Online Free PDF Page A

glistens from standing in the rain and his cheeks are ruddy. In my mind, he becomes Paddy, then Patrick. He laughs at something the driver says, moves to the back of the bus smiling at everyone, smiling at me.
    I don’t actually think much about it until the next morning. Not until I find myself sitting at the back of the bus, watching to see if he will climb those stairs.
    He arrives at the last minute, squeezes through the closing doors. He sits in the same seat as yesterday, across from me. I sit sideways, peer at him over my book. I try to work out what’s so cute about him and decide that it’s his mouth – it crinkles up at the corners in a permanent smile.
    He peers out of the window. Occasionally he works, scribbles what look like mathematical formulae in his notebook.
    On Monday, the bus is crowded and a fat woman sits in his seat. I reserve the seat next to mine with my coat then remove it as he arrives. Our thighs bump together as the bus hammers round the roundabouts. I move my book to cover my erection. He places his coat on his own lap, and I wonder.
    Tuesday, I wipe the mist from the window. I strain, hoping to see him running as the bus pulls away, dream of being the one to shout to the driver, stop the bus, save him, but he doesn’t appear. I think about him all day at work and I promise fate that if he appears tomorrow I’ll talk to him.
    Wednesday night as I go to sleep I actually pray, beg for a second chance. I say, “Look! I know this is dumb, but that guy …” I end with, “Sorry, but there’s just something about him, a feeling.”
    It’s ridiculous, I know; for there is nothing there, no story, no opening, but it takes a month before I stop looking, stop hoping.

Eric Cantona
    I’ve had too much to drink – Nick’s friends are to blame. Two more pints are already sitting on the table, waiting for me. Nick is on form, eyes shining, an easy smile. The pub is busy, buzzy, like a London pub after work. Everything is a blur and I feel soft and cocooned by the alcohol.
    â€œYou’re very quiet,” says Nick.
    I grin at him. “Pissed,” I say.
    I push through the crowd to the toilets, and as I enter, I vaguely note a new face, a
nice
face – shaved head and stubble.
“He looks like a footballer,”
I think. As I piss, the name comes to me:
Eric Cantona
.
    On the way out he grins at me, a tight-lipped intentional grin with raised eyebrows.
    I sit back down. “D’you know that guy by the loos?” I ask Nick.
    He strains in his seat, peers over. “Which one?”
    â€œEric Cantona,” I giggle drunkenly.
    Nick stretches, stands, peers again, and sits back down. “Yeah,” he says. “And I’m Marilyn Monroe!”
    â€œHe’s cute though,” I say. “Very … male.”
    Nick shrugs. “Go talk to him.”
    I lay my head on his shoulder. He slips an arm around me. “What’s the point?” I say. “They all have a shelf life of twenty-four hours anyway. He’ll be off by tomorrow.”
    Nick squeezes me. I pull a cigarette from the packet. “If that’s the way you think,” he says.
    I light it. “I know, I know,” I say. “I’ll never meet anyone.”
    The smoke makes my head spin. I feel dizzy, so Istub it out and stand. “I need some air,” I say.
    I move clumsily through the crowd, out into the fresh night air. The roads shine beneath the drizzle; I lean against the wall. The music inside makes the windows behind me buzz and rattle. A car crawls past – the driver peers at me.
    The pub door opens; the music thumps out – it’s Eric Cantona. He leans against the wall beside me. He says something breathy, but it’s drowned out by the music. The door closes.
    â€œSorry?” I ask.
    â€œYou needed fresh air too,” he says. His voice is crackly, croaky.
    I double take him.
    He explains,