Train of Thought

On the train/under the train

On the train/under the train

On the…

“Have we met before?”

Sophie pauses her inner train of thought to look round to the speaker of the question. Short, puffer-jacketed, black hair, pale face. More of a penguin than a man, she thinks, unkindly. She can’t help it. Working in the beauty industry, she critiques appearances on autopilot. He is about twenty years her junior, but on a good day Sophie could almost pass for his age. Free makeup and skincare samples. Perks of the job.

“No, I don’t think so,” says Sophie, turning back to look at the announcements screen. The man, who seems like he was expecting more questions, looks momentarily lost, then wanders off down the platform in search of other women standing by themselves.

On the train/under the train

That will be our common refrain

Sophie watches a train arrive, relieved shoppers with aching arms piling up around the doors. It is ‘betwixtmas’. People are either heading home, hitting the sales, or both. Whereas our Sophie is wondering:

On the train/under the train.

The 14:53 to Clapham Junction…just doesn’t feel right. She is not ready. She was born ready. She has been planning this for months, years, only just this moment. Was it going fast enough? Do jumpers usually wait for a faster train that is passing through? Either way, put yourself it its way, do not expect to see another day. Guaranteed pancake, squashed strawberry topping. No refills.

Sophie sees a person in a wheelchair coming out of the lift and feels guilty for her thoughts. She looks down at her own legs, innocent limbs, which have carried her this far through life. Imagines them mangled. She studies the bright scarlet shards of her fingernails as the wheelchaired person communicates to their carer in shrieks and moans. Blood red. Turning the insides out.

On the train – back to the place she shared with him, until she read those messages he'd received from her.

She cried, he denied, the emotional infidelity she could not abide.

There is more than one way to cheat on someone. Intimacy doesn’t always involve bodily parts.

The teletext style screens constantly refresh, while puffer-jacket’s routine remains the same. He has moved onto a new lady in waiting (room). Watching his mouth form the same question, Sophie realises he paid her more attention than her family did. She tried to turn the dinner conversation around to her recent career successes, seeing as she was out of dating updates, but was met with “yes but why don’t you have a man like Susie does?” Her sister, being currently on a Swiss Alps holiday with her latest husband.

“At least I’m here, unlike her.”

Said Sophie to her reflection in the bathroom mirror. To say it out loud to her family would probably have caused an upset that would’ve had the turkey running back into the oven.

On the train/under the train

Is anyone else here thinking the same?

Perhaps the latest rabbit caught in puffer-jacket’s trap was. She looked like a rabbit herself, soft brown hair in bunches, quivering chin, not expecting a fox in her hutch. Sophie sniggered to herself and the nearest traveller to her (Asian man, thick hair, toned physique, neutrally clothed) side-eyed her before turning back to scowl at his phone. She was attracted, but attraction to the tracks proved to be the greater force.

She took a few steps forward, the stilettos she had chosen for the occasion tapping seductively. The rabbit girl had not yet learned to dress invisibly, but Sophie had. Sack dress, marquee coat. The heels were a last minute addition, swiped from her old childhood room, originally meant more for bedroom than for platform 13. She figured they would help people identify her, after they’d helped her topple into the abyss.

On the train/under the train

Back to work/back to black

Cornish pasties wouldn’t have made her list of “Top Things to Smell Before You Die!” but here they were. A woman in her 50s, long past giving a fuck if someone sees her eating in public, face first in a golden crescent. Pigeons scrabbling at her sneakered feet for dropped buttery crumbs.

Sophie runs through her end of life checklist. She has made up her will. Seen the parents one last time. Her neighbour who has cat-sit for Sophie before and often joked about not wanting to give the exquisitely groomed puss Saint Laurent back to her will be delighted to obtain ownership. No outstanding articles to write. A subeditor who will make a more than capable replacement. Many people primed to swoop in on Sophie’s remains.

On the train/under the train

Beat the blues/become the news?

Force all the emotions down and force out new columns. Sophie is well-practised in the art. But keep churning out content that makes the preteens who have just screeched into the station in a wave of sound and colour compare themselves to each other instead of enjoying and finding comfort in their connection, while the unceasing darkness swirls in the pit of the writer’s heart. Or opt to pull the plug, close the document without saving… Sophie eyes the grey skies above the platform roof. And finds no answer.

Sophie chews on the skin next to a nail. She may chew herself up entirely, or hop in front of the 14:59 to Guildford, which would be a considerably quicker death. (Although it would add time on to their journeys for the other unfortunate would-be passengers, thinks one who is a people-pleaser to the bitter end).

A pigeon creeps closer to her perfect shoes from imperfect yet perfectly enjoyable past times/pastimes. Sophie nudges it away with an exasperated sigh.

“That’s not very nice,” remarks a pink-haired woman with a PETA tote bag, prompting Sophie to think about all the other things that aren’t very nice. About her, life, love, animal testing.

“You’re right,” Sophie says to the woman, just before the 14:59 appears. The woman’s eyes widen in surprise. People who drop bombs do not always expect fast surrender. The pink-haired woman was bracing for an attack, going by the bristly stance that was making all of her earrings rattle.

Passengers once more approach the yellow line; the starting banner, the deadline.

On the train/under the train