Punctuality was always a real stickler for my dad. I remember being hounded through my coco-pop breakfast and not allowed to read the cartoon pages of the Sunday Post as we were ‘late’ for church. Of course we’d always be the first to arrive, an eon before anyone else, which proved a real bone of contention in the dead of winter when we’d always be there before the heating was turned on. We’d shiver in the pews, my dad beaming, but woe betide you if you were ever late for anything. A trait he has naturally rubbed off onto me. This is particularly evident in encounters with women.
The big hand is on its way back up to the twelve. She is over half an hour late. As usual you stand around the station and ponder if you’ve got the meeting point right. You shuffle nervously, second guessing your current location, dwelling on previous directions. With no phone anymore, contact is impossible. It’s got to be done the old fashioned way. Similar looking girls come and go, and there is that skipped-heart moment of recognition that quickly turns to disappointment. Then you flirt with the idea that she’s not coming. Then you burn a cigarette down and contemplate leaving. That’ll teach her. HAHAHAHAHA! Screw you. Someone you’re never going to see again.
Just as you start to sing the first few bars of an Elbow tune, you catch sight of her bustling up the stairs with a bag in tow. Here’s where all your previous thoughts about opening greetings fly out the window and you make a snap judgement on how to deal with it. She stammers ‘missed tram’ apologies, you say it’s all fine with a dismissive brush of the hand – but inside you know you’re three quarters of an hour away from her leaving your life. Every second counts.
In the end there isn’t much you can do. You’re two people caught on a different path. A chance meeting which will eventually turn to separate ways. That day has arrived. You’re insides sink as she steps on the bus, as circumstances prevent anything else but the inevitable. This isn’t the movies. It’s not the moment you sprint through the terminal, leaping bags and narrowly missing toddlers to be tell her how you feel before she makes the greatest mistake of her life. In the rain. Before you’re arrested. But don’t worry -she’ll wait for you. This isn’t that. This is a cold night in Zagreb and she’s got a ticket to ride.
Awkwardly you thrust the envelope into her hands as she departs. “Some travel reading” you smile. You hope it came off as a charming, heart-warming, cheeky nod, but in reality you probably looked like the pathetic shit-sack you are right now and you need to grow a pair. The contents of the analogical wounded animal you’ve just handed over – dragging it’s way over the cliff to a bloody death – is a short letter of feeling and a three euro trinket you hope might someday kindle some affectionate memory. But alas, that fairground arrow has missed it’s target. In reality they will both be deposited into the first motorway service rubbish bin.
“What’s the fascination with lovers at the station? – you have to tear yourself away.” A mumbled line from a fitting melody is the only comfort to the guy left on the platform, forcing a turn to not look back, because you wouldn’t meet those eyes anyway. “Pick your feet up pal” you hear a voice say from somewhere. Yeah I know old man. I’m still waiting too.
The romance of the bus station
Punctuality was always a real stickler for my dad. I remember being hounded through my coco-pop breakfast and not allowed to read the cartoon pages of the Sunday Post as we were ‘late’ for church. Of course we’d always be the first to arrive, an eon before anyone else, which proved a real bone of contention in the dead of winter when we’d always be there before the heating was turned on. We’d shiver in the pews, my dad beaming, but woe betide you if you were ever late for anything. A trait he has naturally rubbed off onto me. This is particularly evident in encounters with women.
The big hand is on its way back up to the twelve. She is over half an hour late. As usual you stand around the station and ponder if you’ve got the meeting point right. You shuffle nervously, second guessing your current location, dwelling on previous directions. With no phone anymore, contact is impossible. It’s got to be done the old fashioned way. Similar looking girls come and go, and there is that skipped-heart moment of recognition that quickly turns to disappointment. Then you flirt with the idea that she’s not coming. Then you burn a cigarette down and contemplate leaving. That’ll teach her. HAHAHAHAHA! Screw you. Someone you’re never going to see again.
Just as you start to sing the first few bars of an Elbow tune, you catch sight of her bustling up the stairs with a bag in tow. Here’s where all your previous thoughts about opening greetings fly out the window and you make a snap judgement on how to deal with it. She stammers ‘missed tram’ apologies, you say it’s all fine with a dismissive brush of the hand – but inside you know you’re three quarters of an hour away from her leaving your life. Every second counts.
In the end there isn’t much you can do. You’re two people caught on a different path. A chance meeting which will eventually turn to separate ways. That day has arrived. You’re insides sink as she steps on the bus, as circumstances prevent anything else but the inevitable. This isn’t the movies. It’s not the moment you sprint through the terminal, leaping bags and narrowly missing toddlers to be tell her how you feel before she makes the greatest mistake of her life. In the rain. Before you’re arrested. But don’t worry -she’ll wait for you. This isn’t that. This is a cold night in Zagreb and she’s got a ticket to ride.
Awkwardly you thrust the envelope into her hands as she departs. “Some travel reading” you smile. You hope it came off as a charming, heart-warming, cheeky nod, but in reality you probably looked like the pathetic shit-sack you are right now and you need to grow a pair. The contents of the analogical wounded animal you’ve just handed over – dragging it’s way over the cliff to a bloody death – is a short letter of feeling and a three euro trinket you hope might someday kindle some affectionate memory. But alas, that fairground arrow has missed it’s target. In reality they will both be deposited into the first motorway service rubbish bin.
“What’s the fascination with lovers at the station? – you have to tear yourself away.” A mumbled line from a fitting melody is the only comfort to the guy left on the platform, forcing a turn to not look back, because you wouldn’t meet those eyes anyway. “Pick your feet up pal” you hear a voice say from somewhere. Yeah I know old man. I’m still waiting too.