Trust Is an Unsafe Tool

I said I was staying three days for the job. That was true enough to keep saying, but not true enough to satisfy the part of me still looking for the ute keys. Today, after Kirsty’s van was running properly and she would not let me take the tip, I felt the old satisfaction of having earned my place without owing anyone anything. Useful. No bag to store. No name that matters. Clean.

Then Joss crossed the pump island with iced tea and called me worth trusting. I nearly handed it back. I do not need the kind words of people who run a place, especially once Clyde has already decided what I am. Still, the tea was cold, and he had not attached a condition to it. For a few seconds I wanted somebody to trust me without needing to perform the useful version of myself first. That frightened me more than being told to leave.

The recovery truck made me think about how quickly a small scrape becomes somebody else’s job. A tyre looked barely marked, yet the driver called it in. Maybe everyone keeps a private list of damage they would rather turn into a joke, an accident, bad weather, anything but evidence.

I watched the highway until my eyes burned. I keep telling myself that leaving is discipline, but at twenty-two I proved I can run without becoming any wiser. I was lower than I admitted. I was frightened that staying would mean admitting I wanted something I had once convinced myself was weakness.