Sundown
SUNDOWN Her name was May, but she called herself June. She was the kind of woman who dated buskers and tourists and giants. The daily slog to the hospital was wreaking miracles on her bathroom scales. One day she had arrived in the orange side car of a Harley Davison to much amusement while she tried to fluff up her helmet hair. August was a scorcher and the car park was as full as an egg. She passed the open ambulance with only a cursory glance and spotted the usual suspects in the covered porch. The deaf man slumped sideways in the wheelchair had prevailed on yet another unwitting stranger to wheel him up for a fag. The people in pyjamas with the bags of blood and liquids still attached- some with nasal tubes and oxygen - sat companionably smoking on the window ledges swapping horror stories about their injuries and operations. June eased herself through them, smiling and enquiring and sanitized her hands. In the foyer the procession of anxious fac