The rain washes us into the waiting room.
Condensation trickles down the window like an angry man’s sweat. The smell of wet dog hovers in the stale air.
“The train’s late.”
You look at me, eyebrows raised.
“Patience.” You are unconcerned and flick to the next page of your book.
This unconcern feeds the tension between us.
Plato’s Republic. You have lofty ideals; mine are humble. I clutch a soggy magazine, a last minute glossy from the stand.
When the train pulls out you will be alone. I will flicker past in profile as another page turns.
You will not notice.