I haven't written much of anything in days, things still aren't picking up for me. I did manage to write a piece with Gerrod I was somewhat happy with, but I don't plan on posting it until I get a bit more done.

This is, well, drabble mostly. I was on my way home and the song 'I Think His Name Was John' by Reba came on. I started thinking how sad it was for a woman to waste her life away pining for some guy she didn't even know, and came up with this. I couldn't turn it off and thought, what the hell, I'm not getting anything else done anyway. It's short, unedited, and complete. Enjoy it if you can!

 

            It had been complete chance that she had even been on the train that day. She had a daily routine that was strictly followed, it called for her to leave work at six on the dot and walk two blocks to catch the train out of the city. If she deviated, even by a moment or two she would miss it and be forced to wait another thirty minutes for the next one. She hated wasting that time, between buses and the train it took her almost an hour to arrive home, and although she spent that time wrapped up in a novel it didn’t make the added minutes any less irritating.

            On this particular spring day she walked out of the office at five after and when she had tried to rush towards her stop she managed to trip. She cursed, got up and arrived on the platform in time to watch the last car pull away. Defeated she took her place on an empty bench and pulled a worn paperback out of her bag.

            She was right in the middle of the chapter (directly after the first kiss) when the next train arrived. Keeping her place with her index finger she climbed onboard and took the first available seat, paying little attention to the person across from her.

            The train began to move and she opened her book again, submersing herself back into Edward’s kisses. She made it two paragraphs, perhaps three, when the person across from her spoke. In most cases an open book saved her from awkward conversations with the other passengers, unless they happened to have read the same title.

            “Do I know you?” he asked.

            That voice jolted her and she looked up, knowing the face that awaited her. She wasn’t an impulsive person, but this man had been the one time that she had allowed herself to ignore that little voice that had always told her no.

            It had been two years; she had been at a party with a friend who hardly knew the “friend” whose house they were at. She consumed more alcohol that night then any night before or after it; yet had still downed less than most. It was enough that she had relaxed, but not enough that she hadn’t known what she was doing. John had been charming, perfect, and she had left with him to a nearby hotel, despite her friend’s protests.

            In the morning he was gone. Before him she had known what had become of every man she had ever been with, who they married, how many kids they had – but it was John that continued to occupy her thoughts. She had always wondered what had happened to him, dreaming that someday they would meet again, because it was fate. And now he was asking if he knew her.

“You don’t remember me, John?”

His gaze intensified at the mention of his name, eyes searching her face, “I’m sorry, I don’t recall –”

Affection turned to disgust. In her mind he had a reason for leaving her. He hadn’t meant to, perhaps it had been a phone call, or he had work and had not wanted to wake her. Now it was clear she had just been another conquest.

“You left me in a hotel on Fourth Avenue two years ago,” she slammed the book shut and got up, maneuvering her way through the compartment to another empty seat. She sat, clenching the book in her hands, telling herself that the tears that were starting to form would go away. Her heart ached and she was horrified that a part of her wanted him to get up and follow her. He never did.

At least now she knew and in time she swore she would forget.



I'm now off to see if I can get something else productive done.

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