From Station To Station

Two innocent souls, from a chance meeting, quickly form an intense friendship. Several days later, following a sweaty bonding of bodies driven by mutual carnal desire, they had come to regard each other as lovebirds.
We join them, yet another day later, at Obsomba station, located on the Northern Criss-Cross Line. In the golden hour before the setting of the sun, we find ourselves needing to ask, has someone had a change of heart?

“Kristofer,” Ida gazed up adoringly into sparkling, ice blue eyes, “it’s Sunday evening. Events have, moved fast … let’s say. I believe we need to talk.”
“Ida,” the tall young fellow fidgeted in his ill-fitting blazer, “you know words aren’t my speciality, I am more an action man.” To illustrate, he enclosed Ida’s delicate hands with his own, thick, sausage-fingered mitts. Ida bowed her head in worship, or, had she instead decided it best to avert his heavy stare?
Mustering courage, Ida inhaled slowly, counting three breaths. “You see this fur-lined coat I wear?” In response, her lover shrugged his shoulders and smirked. “Well Kristofer, you see, it’s Gucci, purchased brand new in Knightsbridge, London Town. Not from some provincial outlet centre at a knockdown price.” Ida turned her hands over and flexed her fingers. “See these finely manicured and decorated fingernails?” Kristofer examined them, carefully. “Yes, look Kristofer, it is important you understand. They are professionally created. You know, I can’t remember the last time I filed or painted my own fingernails.”
“What are you trying to say, Ida?” Although confused, Kristofer sensed disharmony on the horizon, or possibly even closer.
“Wait, I haven’t finished.” Ida scanned the platform for passengers. Seeing none, she first unbuttoned her coat, followed by the top six buttons of her blouse, revealing an amply-filled, white lace, non wired bra comfortably hugging her upper torso. Kristofer’s eyes widened plus thirty percent their normal size. Before he could utter out one single word in delight, Ida had deftly slipped her hand around the back of his neck and pulled his head forward, easing at the point when his nose inserted between her cleavage. “Can you smell me, Kristofer, can you?” The young man’s muffled response indicated an affirmative. “That’s me Kristofer, mixed with a custom made Paris fragrance. Not some weasel stank bought from the cosmetic section of a high street department store.” As she lifted him away, he gasped for breath, leant forward with his hands supported on both knees.
“I still don’t understand Ida,” he said, looking up, his composure returning, “What, what does all this mean?”
“Oh Kristofer, don’t you see? I am of the bourgeoisie, from an ancestral family of landowners and industrialists. We hold deeds and corporate interests that go back over two hundred years.”
The young man, his breathing returned to steady, ran a rugged hand through his hair and processed the information. “So, what you’re saying, I am not good enough, for you?”
Ida, re-buttoned, laid her palm flat, stroking the lapel of Kristofer’s jacket. “Although not without a certain Nordic charm, you simply lack the sophistication of a gentleman.”
“A gentleman?” Kristofer’s chin gave an involuntary wobble.
Ida sensed he needed still more pieces to the puzzle. “Take your blonde bouffant. Such a style ceased to exist from the mid-1970s onwards. At least, this was certainly the case in England, maybe a little later in the Americas. Today, you might be observed as an endangered species. Deservedly so, I hasten to add.”
A tinny voice came over the platform’s tannoy, announcing the imminent arrival of the 21.10, stopping briefly at Obsomba, before lurching onwards, terminating at Pannivenny, Kristofer’s home town. “So you see,” Ida continued, “I believe I will come to remember you as a brief, enjoyable moment in my life. You’re not bad in the sack, Kristofer, a little quick out of the blocks, something you might want to take with you from here and work on.”
“But Ida,” Kristofer’s train pulled in, squealing on its brakes, “I could get a skin fade buzz cut, you’d barely know me to be blonde!”
Ida reacted forcefully to the desperate tone creeping into her former lover’s voice. “Kristofer! Stop it at once! We mustn’t panic! You can’t change this, I’ve made up my mind.”
“I won’t give you up!” Kristofer held onto Ida’s hands, “I want you to come home with me on Friday, to my parents’ silver wedding party – will you – please?”
“Believe me, I would rather die one thousand different, slow deaths. Now, here is your train, you have your ticket ready? Climb on board, go home and let this be the end of it.”

©Brinkinfield 2020 All Rights Reserved
Part of the Ekphrasis Project (story inspired by a collage)

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