On Monday we went south-west together. “Shall we ride the train somewhere?” you said. “Come with me to Tarneit,” I said. Tarneit. It’s far from where we were just then, which was Reservoir. I moved there recently. A multi-leg journey we embarked on, to pick up an Artemide Tolomeo table lamp. Someone was selling fifty of them for cheap. Into the carriage we go, now southbound.
The first leg – to Southern Cross station – we spend doing the nine-letter puzzle. Mainframe is the answer, and the inevitable twentieth word out of the twenty. I admire you. The time passes. We transfer onto the next one. Radiating is your excitement over the comparative luxury of the V-line – of which this is your maiden experience. On this second leg the word puzzles come back out, although my phone is dying. We wonder about what to do in Tarneit. “Maybe we should go to the pub,” you said. “Sure,” I said. The map disappoints us, with no apparent drink in the vicinity of our destination. We think of alternatives but the ideas don’t come.
We arrive at the station and look around at the neighbouring expanse. The bus. It arrives immediately, and we head further south-west. The stops go by. “It’s the first stop after the next turn,” I said confidently. “Is it?” you said questioningly. I’m wrong, but alas. To the park we go, to kill some time. The Seller agreed to a five-o’clock visit, and at twenty-to-five we step off the bus. Among other things, you point out the deceased pigeon chicks laid lifelessly on the footpath; they’re dispersed slab-by-slab, featherless and of unknown origin. But their fate is decided, causing us some consternation. We continue on around the corner until we find The Seller.
From a cache of Tolomeos he extracts one for me, cleaning it with a magic eraser, and I continue to wonder about the source of this abundance. The Seller patiently explains his acquisition as an inheritance from a furniture business, who had sold them to him in bulk after rejuvenating one of their spaces. He is kind, and I enjoy the chat. The cash is handed over and out we go, onto the street. We stand. I assume we’re now to head back home, having accomplished our goal. “Can we go to Geelong?” you said. “Why not?” I said. Since we’re already all the way out here, we agree telepathically. You touch your foot to mine, and I admire your shoe again. I don’t mention the feeling it gives me. On the corner we awaited our Uber back to the train station, not fancying the bus’s thirty-five-minute lead time. The Seller re-emerges and asks, “are you waiting for an Uber?”. “Yes,” we replied. “Would you like a lift?” he says. We assent. So back we go, in his car, and begin making our way to our final destination on yet another train.
You shift your head from the carriage wall onto my shoulder, your hair just caressing my clean-shaven face. I pretend like it’s nothing even though my heart starts to dance. The sunlight which illuminates my hazel irides draws your eyes closer to mine. “They’re really nice,” you said. “So are yours,” I said. I look all over you and then away at times, my gaze darting between your eyes, your hair, your mouth, your hands, your eyes, and the seat in front of me. I notice the perfect shape of your nose. Our faces are almost touching, perhaps only centimetres apart. I think about going there but I pull away, only to keep wondering whether I should. ‘Till Forever plays over in my head all the way along. I quietly imagine the touch of your lips against mine, the warmth of your breath on my neck. Each time your eyes are set upon me I still do, although I may cry.
I make you laugh, and you return the favour. Your smile burns itself into my memory and the glow of your skin leaves on me its afterimage. You tease me about how my bottom lip quivers and my cheeks puff when I stifle a laugh. We repeat this gesture reciprocally, our mouths inching closer and closer but never meeting.
Alighting the train, we head beachward and find ourselves facing the coast. You video the scene. I stand in frame. I look through the lens but I am seeing you. A bench atop the hill attracts us and sits us down side-by-side. I look over the water but I am seeing you. We sit watching the passersby while the sun sets behind us. I can’t recall much of what we talked about, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Our legs cross inwards, as if to touch, though the coastal air separates them barely. I fantasise about interlacing my fingers with yours and drawing you nearer. Hunger builds. We try in broken German to orient ourselves towards some food, your attempts far better than mine. “Ich habe sehr Hunger,” you said. “Ich auch,” I said. The sun sets. We walk and talk, talk and walk, and settle on the Mexican place. “Would you like to sit out the back?”, The Waiter asks. “Yes,” we said. She leads us to the spacious courtyard – completely desolate, populated only by the lonely, singular table standing in the centre, chairs surrounding. A bizarre scene. They charge my phone for me, although I don’t seem to need it when I’m with you. Bananagrams gets onto the table and we play to pass the time, although you’re much better than me and I’m relieved when the food arrives. We sit and eat, we ascend and leave. Back to the station we go.
On the return line you rest your legs over mine. A multiplicity of thoughts and sensations surge through me, but again I talk myself out of them. Why? I didn’t ask.
I bid you farewell at Parkville station. A moment of touch. You embrace me with your right arm as you usually do, but I want them both wound around me tightly. I want our cheeks to press together, our inhales to coordinate, your hands to grasp my back and hold me close. I want you near. You leave and I feel bittersweetness over letting go of the day. The butterflies continue to linger along the journey back home, and I wish all the way that I had have leant in. “I wish the train ride together was a bit longer,” you said. It seemed to pass quite quickly. “I also,” I said. “I could have sat there with you for hours,” I said. “Ich auch,” you said. And thus the night ends.
All over again I would do it with you, even if it weren’t for the Tolomeo. And so I’ll miss you when you go. “It isn’t really the end,” you say. “You’re right,” I say.