Stowaway Time

　　"You don't like escapism?" I said, trying not to laugh.

　　"No. I don't."

　　"So what we have been doing for the last ten days?"

　　"This isn't an escape from reality," Uman said. "This is our reality."

　　Was it? I guessed it was, if we choose it to be. But who gets to choose their own reality, really? An for how long, even if they do? It occurred to me, just then, that we were like small children covering our eyes with our hands and imagining that the other people couldn't see us. Or that the rest of the world would leave us alone.

　　"The real reality is still out there," I said to Uman. "It doesn't go away."

　　"I never said it did," he replied.

　　We returned to an alleyway where we'd stashed our rucksacks behind an industrial-size rubbish bin. They were still there, protected from the rain by their waterproof covers.

　　"Stowaway time?" Uman Said.

　　"Stowaway time."

　　Butterflies in the tummy time. ... ...

Twenty Questions for Gloria, p220-221
Martin Bedford
ISBN 978-1-4063-6353-1