Her half-face

As the bus hurtled round the corner, I clung hold of the seat in front of me, catching a woman’s silver hair beneath my nails. She half-turned, her disgruntled profile promising a robust complaint.

“So sorry,” I said, letting go of the loose strands.

Immediately, there was a thud, a screech, and I was catapulted off my seat. For a confused moment, I connected the two actions, believing I had made this happen by releasing the woman's hair. I longed to cling tight, seeking safety.

Heavy darkness and pain shrouded the next minutes, days and months. That last, half-glimpsed image of the woman's half-face flashed repeatedly behind my eyelids, as I tried to fix this uncompleted puzzle.

On the hospital ward, I stared into every face I saw, searching for silver hair, disappointed each time.

At last, I was deemed fit enough to go home, but she followed me there, nudging my brain, peering out of the glass on the tv screen, lurking on the back of a teaspoon, swimming in the washing up water. Half-hidden, her half-face tormented me.

I had to find her, to work out the link between her, the seat and the crash, to put the broken images back into a whole picture once again.

Obeying my physiotherapist, I began to take a daily walk, my feet pulling me to that same bus route every day. Stick in hand, leg aching where the metal pin sat, I looked for her silver hair, for a sharply turning profile, for the full face I knew I needed to fix me.