If you’ve been following this blog a bit, you know I don’t do much fiction writing. Yesterday I read this piece, “Stories I Create on the Train”, over at Cara Theoron’s blog and was inspired to write something. It’s short and a bit of a risqué story for me, so there’s your warning if you’d rather not read it. It doesn’t get explicit. I wasn’t really planning on posting it, but someone(who knows who she is if she’s reading this) encouraged me that maybe I should share it…
The train stops one more time. This will be the last stop before I reach my destination, even the word sounds final. I’m nervous, so decide just to stay seated instead of stretching my legs. A woman in love, yet reality is sinking in, I’m leaving the only world I’ve known since childhood. I need a distraction from my pulsating heart, more than my book is providing. I hear the bustle of passengers.
I notice a woman as I look up from my book. She’s probably in her 30’s. Her auburn hair falls in ringlets right on top of the swell of her bosom. She pulled it to the side with a swipe of her hand when she sat down. She crosses her well toned legs which peek out from the slit on her dress. I’m betting she does yoga and not merely for relaxation. There are more enjoyable ways to relax. It’s not the only thing that crosses my mind.
As I look at her face, I notice she seems self absorbed in thought and suddenly smiles slightly. Maybe she’s thinking of her evening to come, eager to meet her lover. She opens her purse and starts adding some finishing touches, a bit of shimmering rose lipstick and a dab of perfume. She swaps her practical earrings, probably worn in an office, for a dangling pair that glitter in the sunlight.
I imagine the lipstick will not be long upon her lips. Any traces of it will quickly disappear in a passionate kiss with her lover, tongues swirling as they taste each other. He’ll probably begin there, trail kisses down her neck, and quickly find her breasts.
My face warms as I feel a blush across my cheeks, not from embarrassment over my thoughts about this stranger, but rather the delight of remembrance. Memories from long ago just add to my curiosity. I can imagine she has a lover skilled in the art of lovemaking, the kind that will take his time and devour her.
Both of them will be blissfully content afterwards and she’ll immediately begin thinking of when she’ll see him again. Does she take this train to him every week? Are things more complicated and can she only go to him once a month, yet longing for more? Oh, I’m familiar with the bittersweet romances. It can make you wonder if passion is enough. It’s why I’m sitting here now, still in an unsure state, though I was convinced I made up my mind.
I twirl the engagement ring on my finger and suddenly think. I remember glancing at the woman’s hands, perfectly polished pink nails, but can’t remember if she was wearing a ring. Her hands are folded in her lap and I can’t tell now. My stop is coming up ahead. No, I imagine the only ring she wears is for sentimental reasons like a ring from her mother. She’s not promised to another, but bound by heart to her lover for as long as it lasts.