Serial Monogamy
It is snowing heavily but the train arrives on time. A man gets on and walks through the carriages. They are close and hot. He is looking for an empty seat. He finds one with a table, unhooks his daybag, takes off his fleece. He puts his bag in the overhead compartment and his fleece on the seat and sits down.
The train moves out of the city centre. The snow is still falling. Under the wheels of the cars on the roads and the feet of the people on the pavements, it settles as brown grit and grey slush. The man leans against the window. He stretches his legs out underneath the table. Tips his head back and closes his eyes.
He opens his eyes, and a woman appears in the aisle. She raises her eyebrows at the empty seat on the other side of the table. The man lifts his chin in reply. He moves his legs. The woman whispers ‘thank you!’ and the man nods. The woman sits down, takes off her coat and bag. She puts them on the seat next to her. She places her hands, palms down, on the table. Bows her head, looks at her feet, breathes deeply. She raises her head. Rummaging in her bag, she produces a piece of A4 paper. There is writing on it. Sitting back in her seat, she reads it, folds it up, unfolds it. Reads it again. She frowns, puts it in her bag. The man’s phone rings. He takes it out of the pocket of his fleece, sees who’s calling and switches it off.
The train rolls through good yards into a station. The man sighs, puffs out his cheeks, puts his fingers together and then to his pursed lips. He looks out of the window at the platform. Sees a couple hug. The man on the platform catches the eye of the man on the train. The man on the train looks away. He shakes his head and tuts. The snow is coming in flurries now. The train pulls out of the station. The woman’s phone rings. She takes it out of her coat pocket, looks at it and puts it back. The train picks up speed.
—
The train is passing through the countryside. The man and the woman look out of the window. There are fields hidden under a covering of snow. It is pristine, unmarked. The woman takes a bottle of water out of her coat pocket, has a sip, puts the bottle on the table, on its side. It rolls towards the man who picks it up and passes it back. The man notices the woman’s hands. The woman mouths ‘sorry!’ the man says ‘it’s OK’. The man takes a sandwich from his bag. He eats, spilling crumbs onto his teeshirt and the table. Some are scattered onto the woman’s side of the table and he reaches across and brushes them away. The woman looks at his fingers.
Going through a tunnel, they catch each other’s eye in the glass of the window. In open country once more, the fields are spread out white. The woman thinks about something and bites a smirk into her bottom lip, the man smiles to himself, shifts in his seat. The train goes over a set of points. Moves almost imperceptibly, from side-to-side.
—
The train is going through the outskirts of a city. The carriage is closer than ever. Outside, the snow has turned to rain. The train passes through a cutting and the embankment is earth and green grass again. Over the top of the embankment, the man can see into the first floor windows of suburban houses. He shifts down in his seat and his foot touches the woman’s. The woman doesn’t move away and neither does the man. They exchange half a glance, then another. He slides a little further under the table; now their legs are pressing together. As the train slows into the station, the man turns away from the window to look at the woman, and she holds his gaze.
Charlie Hill is a writer from Birmingham. His has written two well-received novels. His second – a comedy of ideas called Books – was described by the FT as ‘smart, funny and shrewd.’ He also experiments with markedly less successful short fiction.