Gare d’Austerlitz. Monday morning, eight o’clock. The overnight from Barcelona pulls in on time.
He stares out of the compartment window as if he needs to memorize the scene. It’s raining hard and the station looks as grim as the Paris weather. Only the self-important pigeons flapping and strutting about don’t seem much bothered. Commuters waiting for a local to work, though, who see this every day, gaze blank-faced from the crush on the other side of the barriers as the carriages start to empty and people wheeling suitcases, hefting backpacks, checking their ’phones and the whereabouts of children, crowd onto the long platform. It isn’t leisurely, but they’re anonymous individuals again now, not names on the train manager’s list and after twelve hours cooped up together they’re impatient to be away, to the Métro or a taxi, back to the comfortable bustle of their separate lives, minds busy with schedules, already looking forward to what they plan to do next.
Tomorrow beckons, he thinks, watching the blurred, preoccupied faces. Foolish to be so sure, though. The thought produces the flicker of a smile which he displaces, calming himself by checking his watch, letting his eyes settle on the locked suitcase at his side. In the predictions game, you don’t always win. It’s inevitable. In a heartbeat, he’ll have left the train, made himself invisible among the flow of people on the concourse, just another stranger wearing crumpled clothes and lugging a heavy case, a nobody who won’t rate a second glance.
Ken Head lives in Cambridge, England where, until retirement, he taught Philosophy and English Literature. His work has appeared widely both online and in print, most recently in Prospero’s Bowl, a collection of his poetry published in 2013 by Oversteps Books (www.overstepsbooks.com).
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