writing from the ending: kipapa

Here's an attempt at a strategy I once used a long time ago: writing from the ending, backwards... This is the possible ending for a new version of "Kipapa."

After a long walk in silence, the bus stop on Kamehameha Highway appears before them. Blinking as though he were finally waking up from a long sleep, Cliff mutters, “My stop.”

“So,” says Erica, in a sing-song voice, lightly swinging Cliff’s arm, “What’s next?”

“What’s next?” Cliff glances at Erica. He takes a seat at the bus stop, and pulls her gently down beside him. He flashes a smile as he turns away in thought. The smile fades swiftly, carried off by the sound of the cars on the road beside them. “Nothing changes. In a couple of days, I’m leaving this place, for good.” He exhales slow and long through pursed lips, a low whistle. “And you?”

“I’m going back home,” Erica says, in a grey voice. Sensing Cliff’s reaction, she turns to him, eyes steely and bright. “Just to get my stuff.” She turns away to look at the road, her lips set and resolute. “I’ve heard there are places you can go to. Safe houses. At least it will be a step, right?”

“...Yeah.”

“After that, who knows? Guess I’ll decide what to do from there.”
Cliff smiles a half-smile, to no one in particular. “Sounds like a plan.” He nods. “Do you need me to go with you?”

Erica laughs loudly, but there is a hint of a tremor in it, just at the end. “Nah, I’ll be alright. Next time I’m in a pinch to do Shakespeare for a hostile audience, I’ll call you. But this? I can handle this shit myself.”

Cliff nods, and keeps nodding, like a bobblehead. He turns at the sound of a big engine revving up the road. It’s only a dump truck. He inhales, sharp. “Erica?” he says abruptly. “Just what are we? I mean, to each other.”

The sound of cars passing. Shhhhh. Shhhhh.

Erica squeezes his hand. “Don’t you know? We’re Hamlet and Ophelia, after the curtains are down and the play’s over. We’ve no audience to please, and no lines to read. Hamlet and Ophelia.”

Suddenly, the #52 bus to Wahiawa is there, breathless and impatient. The doors squeak open, and the driver is looking down at the two of them through tea-colored sunglasses. Cliff releases Erica’s hand. There is an empty, needly numbness in his palm and fingers. He sticks his hand into his pocket, fumbles for change. “My bus,” he mumbles absently, not looking Erica in the eye, as he gets up from his seat.
Not good at goodbyes.

“Sure you’ll be alright?” he manages, without turning all the way.

“Sure you can’t stick around forever?” Cliff doesn’t look at her, but he can almost imagine that brilliant smile of hers, a smile that almost pushes you away.

Almost.

At the threshold, Cliff yells a “Sorry” over the din of the restless, fuming engine, and waves the irritated driver on. The bus pulls away, kicking up a cloud of red dirt and swirling black smoke.

Cliff turns back to Erica, still sitting there at the bus stop, huddled beneath his oversized grey sweat-shirt.

“Not good at goodbyes,” he mutters with a shrug.