We’re ‘familiar strangers’, you and me. Each morning, we board the 6.28 to Paddington at Swansea train station but never interact. Have you noticed me?
Familiar strangers don’t speak. If you wanted to double-check what the announcement just said, you’d ask that guy over there, who’s not a regular.
The reverse is true out of context. Say I saw you in a bar, you’d be more likely to talk to me than you would a perfect stranger.
I know your name. Amy Ellis. I love how it travels around my mouth when I say it. It’s written inside the sketchbook you use every morning. You hate your corporate job, dreaming of becoming an artist, but you lack confidence. You shouldn’t. Your drawings are incredible. You float around in monochrome, but the flash of a red bra strap beneath your shirt suggests a wild side, deep down.
Am I right? I deduced everything myself. Much more fun than googling you.
I’m so close behind you as we board the train that I can smell your perfume. Chanel ‘Chance.’ It’s pure whimsy. Might a chance encounter sweep you away?
We take our usual seats. You by the window, me diagonally opposite, aisle-side. We keep our distance like good familiar strangers.
What we need is a break in the routine.
I do it just as we’re approaching Cardiff station. It’s only a little fire. There’s a fleece jacket draped over the luggage rack, and I ignite it on my way back from the toilet.
I’ve barely sat down when someone screams. I leap up, push the alarm and throw my coat over the fire, extinguishing it.
The train jolts to a halt and a guard appears. I return to my seat.
“God!” you say, your eyes meeting mine. Eyes that minutes ago were intent on avoiding my gaze. An announcement tells us the train will terminate at Cardiff. But I can barely hear it over the birdsong in my head.
“The fire’s out,” I say.
“I’m Amy.” You extend your hand.
“Gavin.” Electricity crackles as we touch. Do you feel it too?
Conversation is breaking out between the passengers around us, buzzing like white noise.
“I know,” you giggle. “Gavin Price.”
I gasp. “How…?”
“Messages flash up on your watch sometimes.” Your face flushes. “People call you ‘Gav’ or ‘Pricey’.”
I laugh, but it’s hollow. As though all that churned up excitement inside me has been scooped out.
“Fancy getting a coffee in Cardiff?” Your voice trembles and the train judders into a crawl.
I force a smile. “Sure.”
Uncertainty creeps up on me like the Principality Stadium sliding into view.
“All change, please!”
Outside, I zip up my coat, hiding my face in my collar. A smoky smell lingers.
We walk towards the high street. “I must confess I looked you up on Facebook,” you say.
I stop dead. This is freaky.
You turn, scrunching your face into an ugly knot.
And I run. I’ll never catch the 6.28 to Paddington again.
