Waiting on the
platform for the 10:15
She touches a hand to
her hair
And checks her
lipstick twice
Winds her watch
And looks impatiently
down the line.
She tries to read in
vain, a novel somewhat comedic.
Words slip past sliding
by eyes withdrawn and thoughtful.
So much can be hidden
in the act of holding a book.
The pretence frees
her mind and a smile plays across her mouth
Lifting the corners
slightly.
She removes a compact
from the depth of her bag
and presses powder across her cheeks to dim
the pink anticipation.
The time is 10:05.
10 minutes.
Emotions skitter
across her frame, chasing each other like puppies.
She turns the page of
the book she isn’t reading.
She can hear the
rumble in the distance and as she stands she smoothes
the creases from her
skirt.
Her shoes are new and
she hopes he notices.
A young woman has
come out onto the platform.
She is holding the
hand of a child who is jumping in place.
“Hush,” the young
woman says, “it’s coming.”
Nervous now, she
straightens her coat and pats her hair once more.
And as she does the
young woman with the child looks over
and the two exchange
a smile.
Others drift out onto
the platform, bored or expectant.
Watches are
wound. Books returned to bags. Hands are held or let go of.
The train thunders
into view, a relief and a disappointment.
Metallic sounds
shriek and hiss then stop and huff as though exhausted.
Doors sigh and stairs
are lowered. Places are exchanged with
those waiting.
She sees him amidst
the clouds and her heart quickens.
He takes long strides
down the platform toward her.
He smiles and she
responds in spite of herself.
And as he moves
beyond her, pulls the young woman
and child into a firm
embrace the smile falters
then withers, then
dies.
She lowers her gaze
and lifts a hand to her hair,
looks down at her
shoes and boards the train.
