Between the Stations

They speak for twenty minutes each day. She gets on at Ramsgate. He gets off at Canterbury. But between the stations, they have twenty minutes.

She likes her name when it comes from him. His vocal chords play it well; better than the man who shares her bed.

He likes to make her laugh. It’s his favourite sound, next to Sammy’s laugh. He especially likes her laugh when he makes it happen. Once the ticket man made her laugh, but it didn’t sound as good that time. It was better when it belonged to him.

He knows that the twenty minutes before she gets on is much longer than the twenty minutes they share. She knows that the twenty minutes she spends with her husband—in-between the programmes—is much longer than the twenty minutes between the stations.

It is there, between the stations, that they really feel alive; connected to another person. If only for a little while.