blue eyes and blond hair looked like they came from the same corner of the palette, looked like a perfect match. His cheekbones were even more sculpted than my own. He lay there and I watched him, took in his handsome features.
It was a perfect evening. I’d shown my man that I could be different from the woman he thought he knew. And this would only be the start. I wanted many more evenings like this. I wanted my imagination to run riot. I wanted to make the most of him, to savour every night. Not to let weeks go by without us having sex.
He turned on his side, too. “Are you okay?”
I smiled gently. “Why do you ask that?”
“Just because of this.” He gestured to indicate that he was referring to the sex. “You were like a different woman.”
“Well, maybe I wanted to be a different woman.”
“I’m not complaining.”
“Good.”
He stretched out his arm into a shape that looked like a cradle. I inched over to him and let that arm wrap me up.
But the psychic’s words still ran around in my head — be tougher in love.
3. Strangers on a train
THE NIGHT BEFORE was great, but I still had to start the next day with the rest of the commuters at the railway station.
I like railway stations and I like trains. But during the rush-hour I hate railway stations and I hate trains. And who came up with the name “rush-hour” anyway? It doesn’t last for an hour. Believe me, in a bid to avoid the cram-fest of rush-hour I’ve tried travelling to work at 6.30 a.m. and I’ve tried going in at 9.00 a.m. Rush-hour lasts at least two and a half hours.
Walking down the stairs of Surbiton station is only the beginning of it. It has quite a long platform, stretching at least a hundred yards, maybe more. And naturally, during rush-hour (rush two-hour), people are lined up the entire length of it. Now your seasoned commuter is not stupid. He’s worked out where each train stops, the rough location of each and every door. And he will not stand more than a couple of yards away from that spot.
You can spot the inexperienced commuter. He’s the one standing in-between the door spots. He thinks he’s clever, that he’s closer to the edge and, therefore, better placed to get a seat. He knows the others are probably closer to the doors, but he’s confident that he can sidle his way past them and jump on before they can elbow him out of the way.
He’s wrong.
No prisoners are taken during the rush-hour. Everybody knows there aren’t enough seats on the train for all the people queuing. So normal niceties are left behind, as is anybody old and frail. Pregnant women and children are ignored. Rush-hour behaviour disproves all theories of evolution. We return to being animals.
Myself, I’ve given up trying to get a seat. I usually linger behind the competition, the people jostling be one of the ten lucky winners of a seat. And it is only ten people who get a seat because the train is half full when it arrives.
But for once, I felt good about myself this morning. I’d really enjoyed the previous evening. It was so nice to meet up with Emily. We’ve had some fun times together and Psychic Night had proved to be no exception. I don’t know what I’d do without her. She’s been so supportive, especially recently when I’ve needed it the most.
The train pulled into the station and it was the fast one from Southampton. This is the one I invariably board. There is one thing that annoys me about this particular train. It’s the only rush-hour train that has a first class carriage. And there is hardly ever anybody in it. So while I’m squashed against ten other bodies all standing in the vestibule between carriages, a few yards away some corporate banker has his feet stretched out beneath two empty plush seats. How annoying is that?
This morning turned out to be no different. I held back while the scrum ran its course, then leapt into the carriage. But I stumbled and had to use a particularly portly man in an
It was a perfect evening. I’d shown my man that I could be different from the woman he thought he knew. And this would only be the start. I wanted many more evenings like this. I wanted my imagination to run riot. I wanted to make the most of him, to savour every night. Not to let weeks go by without us having sex.
He turned on his side, too. “Are you okay?”
I smiled gently. “Why do you ask that?”
“Just because of this.” He gestured to indicate that he was referring to the sex. “You were like a different woman.”
“Well, maybe I wanted to be a different woman.”
“I’m not complaining.”
“Good.”
He stretched out his arm into a shape that looked like a cradle. I inched over to him and let that arm wrap me up.
But the psychic’s words still ran around in my head — be tougher in love.
3. Strangers on a train
THE NIGHT BEFORE was great, but I still had to start the next day with the rest of the commuters at the railway station.
I like railway stations and I like trains. But during the rush-hour I hate railway stations and I hate trains. And who came up with the name “rush-hour” anyway? It doesn’t last for an hour. Believe me, in a bid to avoid the cram-fest of rush-hour I’ve tried travelling to work at 6.30 a.m. and I’ve tried going in at 9.00 a.m. Rush-hour lasts at least two and a half hours.
Walking down the stairs of Surbiton station is only the beginning of it. It has quite a long platform, stretching at least a hundred yards, maybe more. And naturally, during rush-hour (rush two-hour), people are lined up the entire length of it. Now your seasoned commuter is not stupid. He’s worked out where each train stops, the rough location of each and every door. And he will not stand more than a couple of yards away from that spot.
You can spot the inexperienced commuter. He’s the one standing in-between the door spots. He thinks he’s clever, that he’s closer to the edge and, therefore, better placed to get a seat. He knows the others are probably closer to the doors, but he’s confident that he can sidle his way past them and jump on before they can elbow him out of the way.
He’s wrong.
No prisoners are taken during the rush-hour. Everybody knows there aren’t enough seats on the train for all the people queuing. So normal niceties are left behind, as is anybody old and frail. Pregnant women and children are ignored. Rush-hour behaviour disproves all theories of evolution. We return to being animals.
Myself, I’ve given up trying to get a seat. I usually linger behind the competition, the people jostling be one of the ten lucky winners of a seat. And it is only ten people who get a seat because the train is half full when it arrives.
But for once, I felt good about myself this morning. I’d really enjoyed the previous evening. It was so nice to meet up with Emily. We’ve had some fun times together and Psychic Night had proved to be no exception. I don’t know what I’d do without her. She’s been so supportive, especially recently when I’ve needed it the most.
The train pulled into the station and it was the fast one from Southampton. This is the one I invariably board. There is one thing that annoys me about this particular train. It’s the only rush-hour train that has a first class carriage. And there is hardly ever anybody in it. So while I’m squashed against ten other bodies all standing in the vestibule between carriages, a few yards away some corporate banker has his feet stretched out beneath two empty plush seats. How annoying is that?
This morning turned out to be no different. I held back while the scrum ran its course, then leapt into the carriage. But I stumbled and had to use a particularly portly man in an
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