She’ll be back. I know she will.
I stare at the empty tracks, the occasional detritus of paper and scattered rubbish still falling to earth in the wake of the departing train.
Out of breath, heart thumping, I see the final carriage as it fades from sight, merging into the mist and distance.
She’ll be back.
Angry words exchanged as she left the apartment still echo in my mind. Argument. Ultimatum. Finality. Decision.
But she’ll be back.
I hear a bleep and look down at the display of my mobile phone. It’s not her – I didn’t expect it to be. That’s not her style. Nor mine.
But with all the passion, with all the defiance, all the certainty, I know she’ll be back.
I glance downwards at her briefcase, neglected by her in the pain and hurt and desperation of leaving; grabbed by me in an effort to bring it to her, arriving on the platform in a breathless rush mere seconds too late.
She’ll be back… to collect it.
Whether she’ll bring it – and herself – back to me, I’m not so sure.
But she’ll be back… one more time. And I’ll see her… one more time.
And one more time, that’s good enough.