MargenWhile I waited for the train I counted the things that would not come back: seven, not counting the train.
The platform was wet and a woman, two benches down, was holding a bunch of flowers whose paper had already given up. She was not looking at the flowers. She was looking at the exact point something was due to come from, that line where the rails meet and fool the eye.
A train went past that was not the one. Another went past. The rain turned fine, almost polite. When hers finally came, the woman did not get up at once; she let the doors open and close and carry on their journey without her. Then I understood what she was waiting for. It was not a train. It was permission to stop waiting for it.