And The Hours, The Minutes, The Days
She’s not coming. I realise this every night at this time, wake up knowing it every morning before convincing myself, as I go through the motions of life that are not life, that I’m mistaken. Today. Today, it will be different. Tomorrow I’ll wake up and she’ll be there.
She said she’d be on the 10.05. The last train home. The station is always empty by this time, and I am always full. As the tracks begin to smack and clatter under the weight of the arriving train, I feel my heart soar, and then sore, as the nerves make it thud, and then fear grips it. I watch the doors hiss open, the people step out and surge onto the platform.
I seek face after face, hoping that this time, for familiarity. She’ll walk out, and smile, and it will be as if she never went away. As if I never got that phone call, or put up all those posters.
I’d know, surely I’d know, if she was really gone. She just got lost, I tell myself. Why wouldn’t I wait for her? I wonder if she’ll still recognise me, after all this time. Maybe I won’t recognise her- maybe she’s walked past while I’m sitting here, and we never knew each other. Maybe she’s dead on more than just paper. Maybe she just left. I could give up on waiting. She’s been gone a long time. But I waited such a long time in the first place, who knows how long I’ll wait for someone else?
The last of the passengers leaves, the double doors swinging shut behind him.
She’s not coming. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, it will be different.
