Friday night: the station

On the large, rectangular digital clock the seconds rhythmically tick by, as she sits in the bland interior café of the station. Her sober appearance is presented clearly to the public, with a mundane brown cardigan and black shapeless trousers.

She is parked at a small, circular table, surrounded by fellow convenience eaters filling their mouths with a mesh of food varieties. She’ll wait here another hour or so to allow the rush hour to pass. She arrived within half an hour of leaving her small, windowless office, an average time as the purposeful, focused journey from work was as efficient as ever. She aimed to always appear purposeful; it was essential in this city.

The bloated balls of couscous she has just deposited in her carefully lip-lacquered mouth become subject to the grinding of her teeth, as their quantity in the plastic, oily container diminishes. She is eating slowly but a silent snippet of wind passes and she glances up to see if anyone has noticed.

Upon the neighbouring Formica tables a variety of sustenance is scattered: burgers hastily left in a dash for the train, spilling their processed meat from greased brown paper wrappers; half spilt cups of coffee, streaked with vertical thin brown lines and swimming in rings of liquid; trays of salad, arranged neatly with cutlery and small packets of seasoning laid out in a pantomime of a meal. She wonders about the consumers of this food and their lives; so much of a person is revealed in their eating habits, she thinks.

To her left sit two women, talking urgently. They push themselves forward, one of them entirely ignorant of the pool of ketchup her innocent sleeve dips precariously into, whilst she chews ardently on chunks of burger and chips. Both overweight and over 40, she senses a feeling of guilt will be mixed in with these hurried mouthfuls. She empathises; most pleasure in life comes packaged with a tinge of remorse. At least for the moment the comradeship of fast food and gossip which seals the women together would keep those wolves at bay.

A man three tables in front captures her attention. He has an expression of hope in his desperate eyes as they dart from side to side like a twitching bird. A glob of mayonnaise which had leapt daringly from a crispy fry in a sudden bid for freedom lies on his cheek, unnoticed. He is so full of childlike eagerness, she observes, so filled with nervous energy, like a schoolboy tugging at the pages of his first dirty magazine.

Her eyes flick down toward her own food. What do these people make of her dinner choice? She’s selected a salad, toasted couscous and char grilled sweet potatoe. Healthy certainly, not too pretentious, yet contemporary. On top of The Guardian she has laid her current novel, a thick, modern classic and winner of the booker prize. Surely this connoted a sense of intellectual curiosity? Something with which one could begin an enlightening dinner party conversation, if one were so inclined.

The hanging digital clock continues to swallow time. The eating hall is emptying as passengers scurry for their tea-time trains. Most, now boarded, would be packed in close, texting lovers for drinks and hopefully casual sex or calling the long term partners, who clock watched at home for their return to organise which take-away would receive their hard earned cash that night. All of them, slipping on their various gloves of comfort and affection. Her time has almost been digested now too.

She hugs her inconspicuous cardigan around herself, tucks her newspaper under her arm and slots her book securely into her leather shoulder bag. Pulling herself up, she tucks the chair underneath her small, round table and moves towards the door, taking one last glance over her shoulder.

Outside, the cool spring air and scents of the city envelop her as the orchestra of the station fades. With each step, the comfort of the concourse and its rush hour excitement dissipate. She feels that familiar grinding in her stomach, like fruit churning in a blender, the further her feet carry her. An infrequent car is now a rare and welcome relief to the unbearable solitude of the now quiet streets.

Her heels click on the step of the old Georgian house in which she has rented her small one bedroom flat for the last 6 months. She turns her key in its rusty lock. The hallway exudes a familiar damp and is immediately suffocating. With only the meagre light of a dim bulb for guidance, she makes her way down the narrow corridor to the white panelled door No 2.

Once inside and as the door closes behind her with a soft click, her daily and only communal meal at the station slots into an empty space in her mounting past. Exhaling firmly, she gives in to another solitary city night.