As they'd been chatting, the backdrop around them had changed from one crowded with towering edifices to that of semi-detacheds, and they were gaining definition as the train slowed.
'Ok. This is me.'
'Yes. Ah, yeah, Rush Hill.'
She rose from the red seat.
'Nice to meet you.'
'Yeah.'
'Take good care. Best of luck with it.'
'Yeah. And you.'
And that was that. Nothing more. Not even a name. Why should there be?
He watched as she gently swished along the aisle and then out the doors into the night's deep-blue shadowiness. Feelings from earlier in the night, from when he'd been left alone the first time, returned, but they were accompanied by a mellowness that he didn't expect. A residual radiance from washed-away things, a double-edged emotion dredged up by sharp loss.
He actively didn't turn to look as she disappeared along the platform, and once more he uncoiled his earplugs and used the blaring sound to drown out all the clatter of the real train.
Now it felt late, the singular effect made by proper night replacing that final flourish after pub closing time. Moments covered in icing sugar.
In that instant it was clear that what he must take out of the encounter were the emblematic grains of hope, those mainly shrouded by bellowing disappointment. Not exactly what he wanted. But surely some part of it, driven by hope, can inform the as-yet unseen.
Harry zoomed into that mantra.
To get there, there must be the realisation that such patterns will repeat or at least seem to. Over and over. The outcome of the future is decided by how those wild, shifting fortunes are met, and in the boldness of the key decisions.
© Copyright 2023 John Maher