I’m just concerned that when the train arrives at the station and I step from it onto the platform he will be there waiting for me and I won’t recognise him. It’s only been two weeks but I am still anxious about it. I can’t help it.
In situations like this – by which I mean ones of high anxiety – he always tells me to imagine the worst that could happen and formulate a plan to deal with it. If it really happened, if I started scanning all the faces on the platform as they turned towards me like rows of sunflowers, and one of those faces was his but I didn’t know it and looked right past him, I would be in trouble. It would probably be the end of our relationship. He’d say things like ‘not committed in your heart of hearts’ and ‘not number one priority,’ and ‘insufficient’ and he will ask me what I am playing at.
I formulate a plan. I will try to remember all his clothes. If he is wearing his red duffel coat it will be easy. But his red coat is probably only 1/150th or even 1/200th of his total clothing stock. I don’t have the exact figures to hand, obviously, but I think these are reasonable estimates.
It occurs to me that it isn’t outside the bounds of possibility that he has clothes that I don’t know about. Like maybe a jumper he’s left at a friend’s house and keeps meaning to bring home. Maybe he’s got a pair of gloves he keeps in the car or a special smart jacket that lives on a hanger at work. Maybe he has whole sets of special work clothes that I don’t know about but for some reason they are the clothes that he will be wearing today.
Finally, it is more than likely that while I’ve been away he’s bought new things. The chances that he’s bought more things are at least 75% or 2 in 3. And if he has bought new things he’ll wear them today (100%) because he hasn’t seen me in a while and he will want to look his best.
All this means that I am probably not going to recognise him. Which means, basically, that I am fucked.
People say that the motion of the train is supposed to be soothing. It is supposed to remind you of wombs and cradles, of the safe feeling of being held in your mother’s arms. I get motion sick. I can’t read on trains. As the train slows down to enter the station it starts rocking more. The slower the train goes the more it is rocking. It is chugging and then it is vibrating. People around me are folding up their newspapers and putting empty crisp-packets inside empty paper cups of coffee. People are starting to stand up. It is becoming more and more difficult to breathe without making a noise.
I don’t need to have a boyfriend anyway. I can watch porn on the internet whenever I like, for free. He is not essential. I try to picture him in my mind. I can’t even be certain what colour hair he has got. I could probably identify him by smell but that is not going to be an option. I can see certain things in my mind’s eye, like the shape of his nose and the distance between his eyebrows. He drinks quite a lot of beer which means his stomach is quite fat. I like it though. It is soft and white and hairy. When I try to draw these details together and make a complete picture of him it dissolves into parts and the parts dissolve into nothing.
I think I could go and hide in the toilet. I stand up and get my bag from the overhead rack. I do this very carefully so I don’t hit anyone on the head with it. Even so, one of the straps brushes an old woman on the back of her neck and she turns around and looks at me as if I have just shat in her bed. It is a ‘what do you think you are playing at’ look. People are starting to shuffle towards the doors and I am getting swept along. I make a snap decision on ‘the spur of the moment’ and duck back from the aisle into an empty seat. It’s a seat near the door in one of the bays that has a table.
The people who are now sitting across from me don’t say hello or anything. They don’t look at me. It is as if they know me from somewhere. Perhaps I was at a party with them and I drunk too much and fell asleep or did something embarrassing. They remember me but they don’t want to talk to me. I make a kind of shelf with my bag on the table and put my arms around it and put my forehead between my arms and rest it on my bag. I think I am totally hidden now.
The train stops completely and I hear the door open. It makes a sighing noise as it slides open. It is as if the train’s trousers have been on too tight. Or the carriage is very slightly pressurised and all the people inside are going to fizz out onto the platform like the bubbles in ginger beer. I only hear these things, because of where my head is. If I open my eyes I can see the pattern on the table and the hairs on the back of my hand.
I never realised how hairy the back of my hand really was. I wonder if it is off putting, if I am known by other people as the girl with the abnormally hairy hands. My hand smells like pickled onion flavour Monster Munch and cigarettes, which is unsurprising.
There’s a knock on the window just above my ear. It sounds like a gun going off. I can actually feel the vibrations and it startles me. I keep my head down. I know I am being a dick. I am imagining the worst case scenario. I am formulating a plan. It is quite warm today. Some of the train windows are open so us people inside can get the breeze. This means the chances of you wearing your red coat are round about zero. Now I come to think about it I can’t even remember the last time you wore your red coat.
After a few seconds one of the people sitting opposite me touches the back of my neck. I think that man is waiting for you is this your stop? I keep my head down and pretend to be asleep.
The knocking becomes frantic. I can hear a voice outside the window. I can’t be sure so I stay where I am with my head down until I hear one of the train station guards blow a whistle and feel the train start moving. The knocking turns into the knocking of someone who is trotting alongside a slowly moving train. Then there’s another sighing noise, like the train has done up its trousers again, and the knocking stops.