The Lady on the Train

The lady that I see seems deep in reverie

         The lady on the Train

To everyone else in the compartment, I am just a lady on the train. But I have a story, just like they do and just like you do. Right now, I am remembering my lover, the one that I’ve just left. I’m clutching onto a book that I cannot seem to read. I’m looking out of the window at the smoke, the trees, and the fields. I see a patch of lilies that stare right back at me. Me, the lady on the train.

         I’m trying to remember why I’ve left him, and why I’m traveling away from home. I remember the first time that our eyes met; we were two tourists in Riga. I’d spent the day walking through the city to immerse myself in its architecture, and I saw him taking photographs of the buildings. I’d seen him more than once. I remembered him because his eyes always glistened with passion. Once, he asked me to take a photo of him in front of an intricate statue. I obliged and was rather happy to. After having seen him quite often, I became curious.
         “I’ve seen you around”, I admitted to him, smiling, flirtatious, after taking his picture. He smiled back.
         “Yes, I’ve seen you as well”, he said with a light British accent. “How do you find it here? It’s quite beautiful”.
         “Yes, very beautiful”, I agreed.
         “It’s also very romantic. I almost think it’s a shame to be here alone”.
         “Yes, it’s a very romantic place”, I agreed.
          “Indeed. I don’t recall having seen you with another. You are here by yourself?”
         “Well, yes-“
         “Perhaps we should make the most of it, then, and visit together”.
         We became lovers, then, and we held hands as we walked. We let go of each other occasionally for more photographs. After each click, our hands would link together again. Though it wasn’t love, it was a passion that I’d never felt before. It was romance, it was sophisticated. We made love, we drank wine, and we travelled. 
         It was a lifestyle that was easy to get accustomed to. Together, we took advantage of many romantic cities over a few months’ time, indulging in each other’s presence, and using each other for the experience. But I couldn’t help asking myself how this would end, and who would move on first. I pushed away the thoughts and we visited Prague, Bruges, Barcelona and Rome. When I left him, we were in Paris.
         I left him because the love was too artistic. We were in love with the idea of being in love, and being free. But even all-consuming passion dimmers after a short length, and that length was run for me, there in Paris.
         It was a sudden realization, and it hurt him. But he couldn’t say that he loved me.
         “I am passionate about you”, he would say instead.
         “How long will it last? How else can it end?”
         “When it’s right. You are only leaving because you can see no other ending”, he said.
         “I’m ready to walk away now”, I whispered. There was a longing in my voice; I found it unfortunate that I couldn’t live with him any longer. I wished that I wasn’t ready to walk away.
         “Where will you go next”?
         “I’m taking a train to London”.
         “My home”, he said. And he caressed me.

Passion is an unsettling thing that cannot end well. I wondered if he’d soon find another woman to use and be used by. I wondered if what we had was as rare for him as it was for me.
         
         As I sit here, on the train, I realize that he had been right; I ended us because I could see no other way. The longing that I feel as I contemplate this is a burden and a regret. I should be leaning into him and holding his waist while touring the city.
         I know that I’ll wait for him in London. I’ll wait at Big Ben, a place he’d surely expect any tourist, including myself, to visit. Perhaps he will come by. But for now, I am stalled. I am the lady who waits.