I run. Coffee in my hand. A rucksack hangs from my shoulder. I look for my card. Too many cards. It’s red, red, red! I shout at myself. The gates open, and I pass through. I run. I run a long way. I go down the steps two at a time. I spill the coffee. I slip on it. I almost fall over. I keep running. My arm hits the corner of a wall. Please, please, please. I’ve made it. He’s here. I smile.

 

The train arrives in eight minutes. I have eight minutes to look at him. Like every morning. Sitting on the bench on the left. Slouching like a student who’d been out the night before. It’s very early. He’s wearing his red trainers with blue soles. I’m on the opposite platform. On my bench. Opposite his. He knows.

 

He knows the time without looking at his watch. He knows that I’ve arrived.

Or so I think.

 

7 minutes

I have difficulty breathing. I have run too much. I take off my rucksack, and I take out my book. His book. I open it in the middle. The page doesn’t matter. I’m not reading it. A couple of weeks ago, I saw that same book in his hands. It’s a sign. My way of telling him from here that I love him. He knows. He’s seen the book.

Or so I think.

 

6 minutes

He looks up. Like every day. With that slow gesture. Composed. Typical of a spy.  He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. I know that he’s done it. I smile. I realize that I’ve started to blush. I look toward the other side. I see the platform for the first time. I see the people. There’s lots of them. Voices can be heard. I shift my gaze back to his bench. Again, I look at those trainers with blue soles. He knows that I’m looking at him. He moves his leg nervously, and I smile again. He knows.

Or so I think.

 

5 minutes

I start shaking. He makes me shake. I lean my head against the wall. Like always. Like an executive, tired after a long day at work. He sighs. Like every morning, I open my hand. I steal the sigh. I keep it in my jacket pocket. In the middle of the morning, I will take it out. I will decipher it. And as always it will mean the same thing: “I love you.” He loves me.

Or so I think.

​

4 minutes

He gets up. He takes a piece of paper out of his pocket, and he throws it in the bin with the rapid movement of a padel or maybe a tennis player. He turns around and sits down again.

 

Someone has touched his shoulder and is smiling at him. It’s a woman. She’s carrying a leather handbag and wearing high-heeled shoes. She says something to him. She’s pretty. He’s not interested in her.

Or so I think.

 

3 minutes

The woman perseveres. He smiles at her and whispers in her ear. She touches his arm again. My arm. She turns around and starts walking towards the exit. He sees her go and watches her hips swing. He’s doing it to make me jealous.

Or so I think.

 

2 minutes

He’s going. And today is Friday. He’s going. He pushes himself up from the bench. He walks towards the platform. He spreads his feet. He looks up. He stares at me. He smiles. Like a lover. Like my lover.

Or so I think.

 

1 minute

It’s Friday. In one minute, my life will cease to have meaning for two days. I love him. He stops looking at me. He turns his head and smiles. It’s that woman again. Her black hair moves with every step that she takes. It seems like she’s competing with me. She knows that she’ll get there before me. She touches that shoulder again; the one that belongs to me. They keep looking at each other. “Look at me” - I beg him with silent cries – “Look at me. Look at me.” The woman arrives at his side. She touches his shoulder. But this time, she doesn’t take her hand off. They look at each other. They smile. They talk. They kiss. They kiss. They kiss.

 

My train arrives on time. Like every day. He goes away. Like every day. But this time he’s with someone. I think that perhaps he didn’t look at me. Nor smile at me. Nor tell me I love you in a whisper. Perhaps he’s not a student. Nor a spy. Nor a padel player, nor my lover. Perhaps tomorrow he won’t remember me anymore. Perhaps.

 

My train arrives on time, and I throw myself into his arms. I have defeated you. I have defeated the woman with the black hair, her hips and her smile. I know that the man in the red trainers with blue soles will never forget this moment. I’ll always be with him in his memories. You’ll kiss him, but with the passing of time, that kiss will disappear and will be replaced. But I’ll always be there. And that makes me happy. Very happy. I smile, I smile whilst I hear the cries of the people. I smile whilst I see your gaze piercing every part of my body. I smile whilst she stops touching your shoulder. I smile.

​

Or so I think.