My watch says Friday so I take it off and fling it away as far as I can throw it. It flies up and lands somewhere in the middle of all the grass. We are walking amidst long rows of grass tufts and I'm back at square one, suddenly panicking about where we're going now that we're here, now that we've found it, now that the waiting is over. Now has never been a good state to be in as far as I'm concerned, every time the stupidity returns and I find myself wanting to go back to the start, to the initial talk, to the booking, to the boarding, to the berth.
You do most of the talking. You point at this, and that, and talk about the difference between dustpaths and pavements, and I listen, clamping down a vague worry into a box. I then sit on it and listen some more.
Right in the middle of all the grass, right where there is nothing but grey and yellow and an indeterminate shade of the sky above, I stop and tell you I have something to say. It's the moment I've been travelling for; I'd ideally want a black umbrella and a distant source of music on the scene too but one can't ask for everything. Somewhere in the distance I hear the tinkle of a bicycle bell on the path we passed sometime back. The crossing will close soon.
So I tell you about the very first time I fell in love.
You listen with a frown, and then say, what of it? Things like this happen.
It's how everyone reacts. People are progressive now, more's the pity, it always accounts for a lack of drama. I sigh and say, ok, and then take your hand and pull you towards the train tracks. There is grass bordering them and growing out of them and in between them. There is a faint breeze playing around which will soon turn into a faint rumble and then magnify into a sound like no other. It always seems like there will be a whistle, but there never is, trains don't whistle anymore. We leave our bags and start running and in my head I can see the slow movement of two lines, one on a track and one running towards it, a clean perpendicular intersection just about to happen, but no, just in time we stop, and you seem to know what to do. Just as the train appears in the horizon you pull me close and kiss me, and there is this sibilance of sound and tone in everything around me. If there were birds they would fly off trees. If there were trees they would fly off their roots. If there were people they would fly out of the way. Everything would move away just in time, except maybe for the grass, which always remains, and us.
There is a draught all around turning into a gale, and the noise is getting unbearably close, but you're still holding me tight and I know what to do. Just like I've always known.
At the right moment I incline my body forwards and fall. As if an invisible hand has placed itself in the small of my back and decided to push, suddenly. We stagger forward together and crash downwards, just as there is a sudden blackness all around and the train is no longer a train but the night. We crash downwards just as the noise suddenly stops, just as everything else stops, just as the grass suddenly seems a whole lot taller, pressed against our faces along with heated metal.
It always happens like this, every single time. And this is, in fact, a love story.
You do most of the talking. You point at this, and that, and talk about the difference between dustpaths and pavements, and I listen, clamping down a vague worry into a box. I then sit on it and listen some more.
Right in the middle of all the grass, right where there is nothing but grey and yellow and an indeterminate shade of the sky above, I stop and tell you I have something to say. It's the moment I've been travelling for; I'd ideally want a black umbrella and a distant source of music on the scene too but one can't ask for everything. Somewhere in the distance I hear the tinkle of a bicycle bell on the path we passed sometime back. The crossing will close soon.
So I tell you about the very first time I fell in love.
You listen with a frown, and then say, what of it? Things like this happen.
It's how everyone reacts. People are progressive now, more's the pity, it always accounts for a lack of drama. I sigh and say, ok, and then take your hand and pull you towards the train tracks. There is grass bordering them and growing out of them and in between them. There is a faint breeze playing around which will soon turn into a faint rumble and then magnify into a sound like no other. It always seems like there will be a whistle, but there never is, trains don't whistle anymore. We leave our bags and start running and in my head I can see the slow movement of two lines, one on a track and one running towards it, a clean perpendicular intersection just about to happen, but no, just in time we stop, and you seem to know what to do. Just as the train appears in the horizon you pull me close and kiss me, and there is this sibilance of sound and tone in everything around me. If there were birds they would fly off trees. If there were trees they would fly off their roots. If there were people they would fly out of the way. Everything would move away just in time, except maybe for the grass, which always remains, and us.
There is a draught all around turning into a gale, and the noise is getting unbearably close, but you're still holding me tight and I know what to do. Just like I've always known.
At the right moment I incline my body forwards and fall. As if an invisible hand has placed itself in the small of my back and decided to push, suddenly. We stagger forward together and crash downwards, just as there is a sudden blackness all around and the train is no longer a train but the night. We crash downwards just as the noise suddenly stops, just as everything else stops, just as the grass suddenly seems a whole lot taller, pressed against our faces along with heated metal.
It always happens like this, every single time. And this is, in fact, a love story.
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