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Living [Excerpt]
17:12
The tunnel for District Line Wimbledon is empty. The tell-tale whisper of wheels on the tracks sound through the platform. A warm gust of air ruffles my hair, curious so far below the Thames River, but there nonetheless. Two bright headlights shine through the darkness and a train rushes in, a blur of red and cream. Doors open and people flood out, spilling onto the platform with crying children, weathered faces, and quick steps. The awaiters shuffle in and pack themselves like sardines into the tube-shaped cars. A tall woman in shiny black heels cranes her neck and shifts her shoulders to fit to the curvature of the wall. The stale air is filled with day old perfume and heavy musk. The smell of sweat and lingering traces of weed in the air makes my stomach turn. I bury my face into my jacket sleeve and try to breathe through a spell of nausea.
The train shifts into motion and the passengers sway as one as the momentum picks up. Fingers grip tight around green metal bars and twine through the loops above. A child whines amidst the towering bodies. I can feel the breath of another passenger beside me, smell the odor of stale coffee and the hints of a garlic-seasoned lunch, maybe fish. I shake my head and try to move away from him, and end up pressed against the green metal bar in front of me, the knuckles of strangers digging into my stomach and hip. A woman to my left sniffles and rubs at the bottom of her eye to wipe away charcoal smudges. She has a nose ring that glints in the fluorescent lights, and I find myself wondering whether snot goes through the small opening when she blows her nose.
I rummage around in my bag for my phone after three short vibrations.
Out of work early. Headed to the pub xx Can’t wait to see you, Liam texts.
I let out a shaky breath. There are thirteen stops from Blackfriars to Putney Bridge. I plant my feet and prepare for the stifling journey.
Be there soon x, I reply.
17:20
“Please mind the gap between the train and the platform. This is Victoria.”
The doors open and a gust of air sweeps into the carriage. Everyone in the vicinity inhales at the same time, lungs expanding and hearts beating as one. A woman with curly brown hair stands up from her seat to exit and I slither my way through the bodies as quickly as possible to claim her seat. With a quick glance around, I see no elderly or women with overextended bellies, and feel no qualms about resting my swollen feet. I place my paper Boots bag in my lap and twist my neck to the side to crack my joints, relieving the built up tension.
Beside me, a teenage boy is listening to music and bouncing his head with the beat. I can’t hear the lyrics, but the bass is strong and it sounds like something that would play at a club. A piece of hair has fallen from his quiff and flops around with the movements of his head. My fingers twitch with the desire to push the strand back into its proper place, lick my finger and smooth the hair down until it behaves. I repress the instinct and reach into my brown leather messenger’s bag for my recently acquired box of antacids and paracetamol. Both my chest and head have begun to hurt, a dull ache, and I swallow the tablets before washing them down with a swig from my water bottle.
My phone vibrates.
The suspense is killing me :((
I smile down at the text and type out a quick reply as the doors to the carriage shut.
30 mins. You’ll live :)
“Are you sure you have everything you need?” a man asks the woman beside him, both newcomers to the voyage. He is wearing a long, dark coat and his black hair is greased back. He has a light dusting of scruff on his jawline, artful in a way that suggests he has maintained his five o’clock shadow since early this morning.
“Yes,” the woman says with a smile. She’s pretty, probably early thirties, with wavy blonde hair pulled back with pins. She’s dressed smart, similar to her counterpart, and looks as if she works in a fancy high-rise building.
“Your flight leaves in two hours, Gate 5B.”
“I remember.”
“Greg says he’ll be waiting when the plane lands.”
“Alright.”
The man fiddles with the large suitcase at their feet. He opens a pocket and pulls out a yellow folder, then shifts through a couple pages before putting everything back in its proper place. He stretches his fingers before tapping them idly against the handle of the luggage.
“You don’t have to go to the gate with me,” the woman says softly. Her large brown eyes gaze at his face and her ruby red lips tilt up in the barest of smiles.
“I want to.”
The man looks in my direction and I divert my eyes down to my lap. They exchange a few more hushed words and I watch out the corner of my eye as their feet shuffle closer and the man’s hand comes up the woman’s hip to steady her as the train sways around a bend.
They remind me of how Liam and I had first started out. Shy touches and barely concealed adoration. My fingers come up to toy with the diamond on my left hand and I wonder if the man with the dark coat has a similar ring in his pocket, or maybe in his nightstand at home. I imagine him one day pulling it out at a fancy dinner, as Liam had, and getting down on one knee with his eyes glistening, and murmuring, “It would make me the happiest man in the world if you’d spend the rest of your life with me.”
I get lost in the memory of it, my eyes stinging now just as they had the night he’d proposed. Liam had looked so handsome, amber eyes staring earnestly up at me, hair styled to the side and ears pink with nerves. I’d decided to wait it out a few moments, really make him sweat for it. His smile had faltered after a few seconds. I’d watched his Adam’s Apple bob above the dark mole on his neck before I’d let out a blinding grin and accepted with only a few tears falling down my cheeks.
“Yes, of course, always,” I’d said as he’d stood up and wrapped me in his arms.
There had been violins. Of course there had, the giant sap. I’d hated the violins, as he’d known I would, but somehow I would have missed them if they weren’t there. He’d kissed me like his life had depended on it, and I’d kissed right back as the swell of Debussy’s “Beau Soir” played in the background.
Running a hand through my tangled hair, I wonder what the couple with the suitcase’s story is. They seem to both be professionally dressed, as if coming straight from the office. Maybe they work together and he is just a friendly colleague showing her to the airport and making sure she gets off to some big business dealing on the right foot. I glance up and note the soft expression on their faces once more, how they’re crowded into each other’s space with a sense of familiarity, like they want to be close to each other instead of forced together within the confines of the space. Maybe it’s an office romance, some sordid affair with secret glances and quick kisses in the lounge. The woman hesitantly reaches out and smooths the man’s coat lapel down. I decide to put money on each of them being too oblivious to realize that they’re in love with each other, and one day they’ll realize that they’re going to live happily ever after. Just maybe not today. Ah, rush hour romance.
They get off at South Kensington to switch lines for Heathrow and the man brushes a hand against the small of the woman’s back.