Old Lovers at a Train Station

Hazy window panes, snow-clad tracks, breathes turning into fogs. A train station is a good place to catch the melange of human emotions. I find a place, settle down and spot people, make fictitious stories about them. I could do this forever.

That’s when I see you. A backpack, fluttering overcoat, clenched fists, purple scarf, and a pink nose. It’s hard not to notice you, after all those years. And that is when you spot me and burst into a whimsical, hysterical laugh. And I smile, slyly. And then we both laugh. So that’s how old lovers meet; don’t let the books deceive you.

We say a pretentious ‘hi’ and some other pretentious small talk. And we laugh, laugh like strangers who know too much about each other or lovers who know too less. Silly, once we made forevers of each other, today we meet in strange cities, far from home. Forevers, running into each other by chance, far from home.

“Fuck it, let’s do it. For the old time’s sake,” you say. So we point out random people and make stories about them. “The lady in the leather jacket, that sassy one, when the night falls, she sits at the head of the city’s family cartel,” I say. “You’ve lost it”, you laugh. Maybe, I think, along with a lot of other things.

So we conjure more stories about the lady with several broken marriages and one unshaken heart, about a teen running from house to find a home between his 40 years old maiden’s legs, about a girl who claims to trade souls from this world to another so one could get away with murder.

Your train arrives and our stories vanquish. We say goodbyes. And exchange promises to stay in touch forever. “Call me,” and you hand over the note with your number. You board and vanquish like all other stories.

I wonder about goodbyes, promises, and forevers. After all, these concepts are just words. It doesn’t hurt to see you go, again, but might do if I start to hope. So I crumple the note and throw it on the tracks. Because, after all, hope is just another word and you are just a story.

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