Shared Prisons

Late afternoon sun glistens on the slick road, saturated by a brief but torrential downpour. If it was summer the tarmac would be steaming but at this time of year there’s still a chill in the air although the sun is now sharp and intrusive, chasing away the final drops.
One or two minutes remain before the bell rings for the end of school, before the children are rushing out to waiting parents. Most of the mothers plus a sprinkling of fathers continue to sit in their steamed-up cars recovering their wits from the roof battering rain. A few parents stand glumly under umbrellas not quite trusting the storm to have finished with them, damply regretting their decision to walk and there must be one or two bemoaning their misfortunes at not owning a car.
Plus one other mother, or is she a mother–she looks very young, perhaps not much more than twenty, standing apart from the others, with no umbrella and only a thin pale green jacket for protection. Her hair plastered to her skull, her face colourless, even her lips drained of colour.
Now the bell rings and children begin to appear at doors looking apprehensively at the last few drops of rain–I’m reminded of Hansel and Gretel in the witches house, wanting to escape, fearing the consequences, knowing that they’ll have to be back inside the next day–then judging it safe, they give whoops and dash through the puddles for the freedom beyond the school gates.
The soaked woman doesn’t move. A father getting out of his Audi says something to her as he passes. She looks at him with hurt eyes, his step slows as if in appreciation of some difficult fact about her life, and she says:
–Why not,
and if it’s possible she retreats even further into herself and her lips echo,
–Why not,
barely a sound, an unrealised intention.