THE WOMAN ON THE TRAIN

I sat next to a woman travelling alone on the train. I wouldn’t normally do that but I was tired and it was pretty much the only seat. I asked if she minded and she moved her bag out of my way with a smile, so I sat down.

I was on my way back from London after an amazing day watching rugby at Twickenham. A friend of my brother’s had let me have some tickets at a fraction of the true cost. England won, the company had been great and I’d been drinking Guinness but wasn’t in any sense drunk; just mellow, happy and relaxed in a way I seldom achieve these days.

I only noticed how attractive the woman was when she turned to ask if I was getting off at the next station. Dark hair framed a kind face and something about her suggested the faintest whiff of melancholy; not a deep sadness at all, but I sensed that life might not have delivered all she had hoped for. That impression was strengthened when she talked about having been to a dinner in London that she hadn’t really wanted to attend and how she just wanted to be home.

She talked quite a bit about herself, backing up every now and then and saying:

“I’m talking too much aren’t I? Do you mind?”

In return, I talked too, telling her about my search for somewhere to live, what my kids were doing, my sense of being stuck between a life that had ended and a new one that had yet to begin. We spoke easily, our eyes connecting over the words.

To my surprise, as I stood up to let her off at her stop, she wanted to give me her number, said she’d like to meet properly. I tapped the digits into my phone and as she walked down the platform, sent her a text saying I had enjoyed our chat and looked forward to meeting again.

I hit send optimistically as the train moved away but, after a few seconds my phone came back with “message did not send.” I tried again with the same result. Then, looking more carefully at the numbers, I realised that, where there should have been eleven digits, there were only ten. I’d missed a number out. Now I was the one full of melancholy. Our two ships had passed in the night and would not meet again.

I wondered what she’d think of me – taking down her number and not following up. Perhaps she’d see it as part of the pattern of her life, just one more sadness to add to the pile.

Maybe one day, walking though the train looking for a seat as I head home after a poker game, I’ll see her again. I’ll smile and say, “Do you mind of I sit here?” and she’ll move her bag.

This time, I’ll make sure I have her number right before she gets off at her stop!