he next train to depart from Platform One will be the four-thirty-two, Flinders Street, stopping all stations to Flinders Street except East Richmond.
...And right on time again, she shows up. Yellow t-shirt and denim skirt. Today, she’s wearing glasses that I haven’t seen her with before and they make her look like a librarian, especially combined with the long, deep, deep, brown hair. I don’t need to look her up and down like I have in the past. I have her memorised. After seeing her every Sunday at the same time for six weeks, I could almost convince myself that I know her. After all, I have seen a multitude of her moods. I know how she looks when she rubs her eyes, when she walks, when she smiles, and when she closes her eyes. I could nearly fall in love with her for real when she’s asleep.
The train arrives, I open the door for her and sit down about six seats away facing towards her. I have to do this surreptitiously though. I can’t let her know that I’ve chosen the seat deliberately. She always faces me and watches me, while at the same time, trying to pretend that she isn’t. It’s odd that we’re doing the exact same thing. Five stops later, she stands up and gets off the train.
----
The next train to depart from Platform One will be the four-thirty-two, Flinders Street, stopping all stations to Flinders Street except East Richmond.
Today she’s dressed up. She’s not exactly in an evening gown, just black pants and a white blouse but compared to the colours I’m used to seeing her wear, she may as well be heading off to a black tie dinner.
She’s also wearing sunglasses today. It’s something that I’m not used to. I can’t see what direction she’s looking, as they’re completely reflective, and it sends me into a spin. I could swear she’s staring at me the whole time. Her face is pointed straight ahead. She must be looking my way. I want to stare straight back at her and smile or do something similarly cool and attractive but I can’t even make myself look at her for more than a few milliseconds at a time. This is just fucking ridiculous. All I have to do is look back—just look back and smile. I can do it. I can do it. I can do it. My head isn’t following instructions though. It’s stuck looking out the window. I want to do it. I want to do it. I want to do it.
The only thing I could do now is to take my head in my hands and physically turn it towards her. Then I would have to use my fingers to push my mouth into a smile but, with a certain amount of dismay, I find that my hands aren’t responding either. That's possibly a good thing, come to think of it.
Anyway, It’s like she’s in a trance, her stare is that unrelenting. Shit. One more stop and she gets off. I need to get it together.
I’m trying to convince myself that nothing bad could come of me smiling at her. After all, what’s the worst that could happen? She doesn’t smile back? Big deal! She’s just a girl—just a gorgeous, well dressed, sexy as hell girl. Strangely enough, my gut doesn’t believe the arguments coming from my brain. My gut thinks that every single bad thing that could happen will happen if I smile back. My gut is shutting me down. I’m not even sure I’m still breathing. In one minute, she’ll stand up, casually make her way to the door and leave and I won’t have done a damned thing to make her remember me.
The train vibrates gently and the brakes squeak as it slows. My heart picks up the pace and my stomach starts to churn. Say anything at all. Just talk! I find, to my disbelief, that my mouth is opening as she stands. I’m going to say ‘good-bye’. I can do it. I can do it.
As she walks past, my lips move but she doesn’t respond because no words come out. My throat is so dry from nerves that I can’t get my voice to work. In the end, all she can hear is a slight, but very high-pitched squeak and a cough to disguise it.
Needless to say, she keeps walking past, goes straight out the door and I feel like a fucking idiot!
----
The next train to depart from Platform One will be the four-thirty-two, Flinders Street, stopping all stations to Flinders Street except East Richmond.
She’s wearing a loud green top and black pants. The top is disgustingly bright and really quite ugly. Perhaps it’s a credit to her that I still find her beautiful in such awful clothes.
More important than the clothes she’s wearing, she has a friend with her. I turn down my discman, but leave the ear-pieces in so it doesn’t look like I’m eavesdropping.
Whatever they’re talking about, they’re finding it hilarious.
‘…and then you need a wife to get a house.’
‘…and you need a dog to keep you company.’
‘…then you need kids to keep your wife happy.’
‘…but you’ve got to get rid of the dog when you get kids in case it bites them.’
They’re laughing at this. I don’t get the joke at all, but it’s worth the mystification to see her smile. I don’t think I’ve seen her smile properly before. I mean, she smiles when I open the door for her but it’s a contrived thing. It’s not like she’s genuinely enjoying herself. They’re still laughing when the other girl gets to the punch line.
‘…and then your wife has to clean the house and look after the kids and work and once they’re at the most difficult age, you have to dump her and the kids and the house and find yourself a younger woman so you can reclaim the youth that you missed.’
They’re laughing so hard that my girl is doubled over and holding her stomach. I can’t help but crack a smile, even if I don’t get it. Her laughter is infectious.
Then the friend says something I’ve been waiting for without actually realising that I was.
‘It’s so good to see you again, Joy. I’ve missed you.’
Her name is Joy! I couldn’t have even made up a better name than that.
Joy says something back, but I’m not listening anymore. I’m sounding out the name over and over in my head. Joy. Joy could make me happy. If all else fails, I’ll still believe in Joy.
The train arrives and I open the door for both of them. I don’t even get a glance this week, but it’s forgivable. She’s occupied.
They’re giving each other updates on life since they last saw one another. I don’t know how long it’s been—they don’t mention dates—but it must have been a while. A lot has changed.
Joy has gone through three boyfriends but is currently single and not enjoying it. She also has a new job at a café—where they bumped into one another—that is mostly populated by the over fifties. She likes this better than her old job because her new customers are more patient than the old ones were. The old job was also a café but was too trendy for her. Its cool-factor (Joy's word, not mine) meant that the customers were all arseholes and never tipped. At her new job, her boss likes her, and has offered to sell her the business eventually but Joy isn’t sure if she can afford it. I hang on every word to find out where it is, but Joy doesn’t mention it. I would like to visit her at work. At least, that way, I’d have an excuse to talk to her. I could talk to her, say the cool and winning thing, and gradually make her love me.
In my fantasy, I am wearing cool and sexy, but understated, clothes. Joy’s stressing out about the café being busy and having to work by herself. Her hair is a mess and her cheeks red from running between tables. I offer to help and she declines until I insist. I sit at the coffee machine, pouring mochaccinos and macchiatos and short blacks and lattes, and each time she comes up with a new order, I make a witty comment or show her something incredible she can do with this model to make the coffee look and taste better. She loves me for the things I know, and for my humour, and for everything about me. At the end of the night, she invites me for coffee at her place and things go from there.
Before any of that happens, though, I’ll have to learn how to use a coffee machine. I’m not even sure they’re called that. I’m sure they have a proper name.
When it comes time to leave, her friend stands up with her and they leave together. The friend is going to Joy’s house for coffee and to catch up on old times. I’m staying here.
----
The next train to depart from Platform One will be the four-thirty-two, Flinders Street, stopping all stations to Flinders Street except East Richmond.
The train’s here and Joy’s not.
I don’t get on and, instead, opt to wait for the next one, just in case she’s late. Twenty-nine minutes later, the next train comes, and then and goes, and I stay on the platform. I catch the one after that, thirty-one minutes later again, which she also fails to show up for.
When it comes time to actually get on the train, it feels weird opening the door just for myself. I’m so used to turning sideways, pulling the handle, stepping back, smiling, spinning back around and finally getting on the train that I’m finding it hard to remember how to open the door in any other way. I can’t quite figure out how a simple action, one that I’d been performing for years (hell, decades!), could seem alien. Every day, a billion people open doors without a thought to how they do it. Without Joy here, I can’t seem to remember how. No, it’s not a case of remembering. I know how to do it. It’s just that it isn’t my natural response anymore. I have to think about what I’m doing.
After I’m done dithering about with the doors, I sit in the first seat I see.
Another girl gets on the train and seems to be dithering the same way I was, but her dilemma seems to be over where to sit. Her indecision attracts my attention, and I find myself watching her. After trying about four different seats, she finally settles on a one about halfway along the carriage, facing towards me.
As soon as I see her face, I feel a pang. She looks enough like Joy for me to be able to list the differences. Hair’s a bit shorter and lighter, slightly more tanned, definitely more nervous energy (Joy would never spend any time deliberating over which seat to choose).
The longer I spend looking, the more their images begin to merge, or rather, the more my mental picture of Joy morphs into this new girl.
She’s constantly sifting her weight, trying to get comfortable.
And then our eyes meet for a fraction of a second, she smiles, and, that instant, I feel like I’m cheating. I’ve never felt like that before. Joy’s been gone a week and already—
Hold on. How do you cheat on a girl you’ve never spoken to?
----
The next train to depart from Platform One will be the four-thirty-two, Flinders Street, stopping all stations to Flinders Street except East Richmond.
I know she won’t be on the train today. I found this in the paper on Monday.
Local Woman Found Dead In Park
A body found by a jogger on Thursday morning in a Richmond park has been positively identified as that of Joy Cruise, a twenty-six year old waitress who lived in the area.
Ms. Cruise was reported missing on Friday after she failed to arrive at work.
Investigators are yet to determine the cause of death but are hoping that an autopsy, to be conducted tomorrow, will help in their investigations.
Detective Sgt. Peter Frank says that the police have no reason to suspect foul play at this stage.
“All we have is a dead body. There are no obvious signs to indicate murder and we can’t very well start crying homicide until we have the results of the autopsy,” Sgt. Frank told the media.
My Joy is dead. I know it’s her because there’s an old photo with the article. She looks about twenty in it. I cut it out and stick it on an old calling card in my wallet. At least now, I have something to remember her by.
I wanted to join the mourners at the service last Thursday, but I didn’t know what to say.
‘Hi. I know your daughter / sister / niece / friend died under suspicious circumstances but I’m a guy who’s been staring at her on the train for the last three months and obsessing. Can I come into your home when you’re at your most vulnerable?’
Instead, I decided to leave flowers outside the church early in the morning. It wasn’t anything fancy or outstanding, just a small bunch of yellow chrysanthemums and a note:
‘I remember you from trains.’
