Memories of a ship on a train

I was on the tube going in to work one day last week, much as I always do, in much the same crowded and uncomfortable circumstances as ever. I was partly deaf from the unfortunate simultaneous occurrence of an ear infection and a build-up of wax in my freakishly narrow ear canal, not the most pleasant condition of which to speak but one to which a lot of us are prone. During the long commute three people - two guys, one girl - began to gradually stand out among the other passengers. They were standing near the doors, talking amongst themselves, loudly I presumed, gathering from the girl's gesticulations. I watched them as they spoke, only hearing their muffled voices, so muffled thanks to my aural situation I could not make out what they were saying much less what language they were speaking. My eyes settled on one of the guys, the more good-looking of the two. I froze. My heart did that somersault thing hearts do when the brain communicates to them that the eyes have seen someone from your past. Well, he certainly looked like someone from my past, being the spitting image of Antonio, a boy from Portugal who was working as a porter on the cruise liner which transported me and my family from Cape Town to Lisbon 22 years ago, and with whom I had a ... what do I call this ... an affair? ... a romance? ... a fling? ... a thing? That's it... a thing. We'd steal kisses when we crossed each other's paths and would meet in his off-duty hours, spending long hours talking, drinking and fumbling around in various locations about the ship - in the children's nursery, in the kitchen, in a private lounge, on the deck, wherever and whenever possible. It was a blissful time, those 8 or so days we spent together, but we made no plans to meet up once the cruise had ended. I had the prospect of a new life in Spain ahead of me while he had a few more years of cruise liner work in him. Great memories were made, nothing more. Even so, seeing right there before me what seemed like Antonio's warm brown eyes, his easy smile framed by endearing smile-creases and his perfectly straight nose, all of which were often millimetres from my face during our time together was a bit of a shock to me. Could it be him? No, it couldn't be, surely. I'd last seen Antonio 22 years ago and this guy was the spitting image of him then. Time can't have been so good to him. Pacts with the devil and Dorian Grey came to mind. Meanwhile, in the constant ebb and flow of passengers getting on and off the train, the three gradually made their way to stand where I was seated, and even right there before me, I still could not decide if it was Antonio or not. If only I could have heard what language they were speaking for if it had been one other than Portuguese I'd have known for sure, but my deafness was non-compliant. At one point the guy turned and his eyes met my gaze. That was too much for me and I quickly looked away, but it was too late. I was thrown back in time to when my 17-year-old self was sitting on the ship's deck looking out to sea, moments before this good-looking boy took a seat next to me introducing himself as Antonio. As my mind was drinking in this memory, the seat alongside mine freed up, and my Antonio lookalike sat down next to me. For a moment I felt like I was back there; where once there was a ship there was now a train. But I soon gathered my wits about me. It was then that it felt as if a fissure had formed in Time at the precise point between our two seats. He was in 1990, a guy in his 20th year, his beautiful body full of youth, energy, testosterone and an almost tangible lust for life. I was in 2012, a woman in her 40th year, her grey hairs glistening under the harsh tube lighting, her abused, obese body draped in black clothing, reflecting her equally abused, depressed mind. I hid my face in my hand, terrified that it would indeed be him, ashamed at what he might think upon seeing me, and sad that the girl I was, sitting next to him all those years ago, would become the woman I am now. I fled the tube at Oxford Circus. The train carried Antonio and 1990 back to the past once more. I didn't hear it go.

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  1. How beautifully you write... I've missed reading you.

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