With stars concealed in the sky, it’s getting near midnight here on the train platform. The air is slightly damp, and the station lights have a misty aura. The rain’s barely even falling yet.
From a metal bench, I keep scanning the surroundings with a mind that wanders like a cloud. The bar had lots of pretty girls tonight, but… eh.
The house windows across the way suggest everyone’s asleep. She probably is too; she has to work tomorrow. She used to call me late at night all the time, until…
Anyway, there are sixteen digital light poles (I counted them), and there’s a faint humming sound that reminds me of those awful overhead lights in school.
Below, a car just rode by with a bunch of drunk kids screaming like hell out the open window—
“I’m on the HIGHWAY TO HELL…
I’m on the HIGHWAY TO HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELL.”
On the way over to her place one night, I joked by singing that to her. I laughed a little when they trailed off and the music faded.
Why does the desire to write always come too late at night? And why do lonely feelings tear me apart at the same time?
One Christmas, with the room lit only by lights on the tree, we sat quietly curled up on the couch and listened to her favorite new song, “fuel to the fire,” by Agnes Obel, and my favorite “Azelea,” from Blackberry Smoke, while I held her and felt the warmth of her forehead on my chin. That’s a memory I can’t get rid of.
At twelve o’clock, I walk into an empty train. On the way home, I can see lights glowing in some of the houses and I find myself contemplating other people’s lives. Are they happy? Are they making love? Do they have insomnia?
I can also see my reflection in the glass. That guy looks handsome, but I wish he didn’t look so sad.
When the doors open at each stop, the only thing entering is a light wind. A little piece inside me wishes someone just as lonely would get on. How pathetic is that?
Walking home, the only sound I hear is my shoes beating out a lackluster rhythm on the pavement.
She’ll probably call the new guy tomorrow at lunchtime. She did that for me a lot.
At 3:48 a.m., rain starts hitting my bedroom window.
At 4:01 a.m., I can’t sleep.
At 4:03 a.m., my phone pings on the table next to the bed…
“Hey, just thinkin’ about ya.
Call me tomorrow, okay,
I miss ya…”
My eyes go wide. I look at it a couple of times, give a small smile, feeling my loneliness dissipate, then pull up the covers and sleep like a baby. Now I ask you, whoever thought a ping could sound so comforting?
Passionately penned, Tim. Great storytelling my friend with a very relatable story. Nicely done. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thank you, Damian.
Brilliant work.
Thanks Thomas.
There’s nothing wrong with this, so i don’t know what you were wary of?
it’s a great little short with big implications. Where is part two???
I don’t think they’ll be a part 2. lol but thanks for the comment, Styx. 🙂
I’m glad to see it end on a happy/hopeful note. Having been a lonely guy many times, I’d say this fellow’s thinking is right on. I’ve always thought there must be lonely lady for me out there somewhere, if only we could meet. Nice writing–I like your stories.
Thanks Sam. I’ve been lonely so long it kind of wore out. lol Glad you’re here. Tim (Relic).
Tim, you painted loneliness in the city with brilliant brush strokes here, in an emotional train ride that will not be soon forgotten by me. This is what great prose can do. it is felt deep down in my heart and soul.
John