Ride

As you will be thoroughly aware by now, I am not exactly successful as an adventurer in the land of love. Some people brave the wild waters of romance and machete their way through the jungles of sexual shenanigans, whereas I tend to dip my toe in the sea and declare it too cold or stay on the edge of the dark forests for fear of being bitten by killer ants.

Before I continue, I should state that one of my top ten films of all-time is Alfred Hitchcock’s Strangers on a Train and I have always had this strange inclination that, one day, I too would cross paths with someone whom I may enjoy a special relationship with – I don’t mean to ‘swap murders’ with. That would be crazy and illegal.
This bit of information is not merely a random comment…

This Friday morning, I was taking the train into work. I change trains at Richmond station and as I was waiting for the second leg of my journey, I spied a rather attractive fellow on platform nine. Our eyes kept catching like sticky burrs on a woollen pullover and when the train pulled up to the station, we sat relatively close to each other with only an aisle between us.
During the first five minutes of the journey, there were a couple of awkward glances between the two of us, both, I assumed, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. The train was a limited express so we bypassed most stations. When we stopped at Glenferrie to release the hordes of students, we did not set off again. The train remained stuck at the station for a further 25 minutes. What a day to have left my book at home!
Apparently, there was something amiss with the doors. I imagine they were loose and the train driver was worried we might all throw ourselves from the moving vehicle in fits of despair on this cool Friday morning. Better to be safe than sued for negligence.

After a period, the driver told us to abort our journey and wait for another train. This triggered the tall handsome devil sitting across from me to smile in my direction and raise his eyebrows in a pantomime show of acquiescence. I gave some sort of imitation to show my camaraderie and, as we stepped off the train onto the platform, I asked him if he was going to be late for work. This begun a conversation in which I discovered; his name was Hugo, where he worked and lived, and that he was Dutch (I asked if he was Canadian! I should be better at picking accents although he did confuse me by have a maple leaf emblem on his sleeve! Tricky…)

The next train eventually arrived and we both took the ride to Camberwell where he had to change for his connection. In a bold and daring move, I reached into my wallet and handed him my own personal card detailing my email address and mobile number.
Then I went off on my merry way with a spring in my step and my cheeks flushed with excitement.

Now for the reality check:

1. The Dutch people I have known before have always been friendly, polite and congenial, so he may just be his usual amicable self and not, as I presume, ‘interested’.
2. One chat does not constitute a friendship.
3. He may never attempt to get in touch, despite the contact details supplied.

But in the land of my fantastical imagination;

1. Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
2. Titter.
3. Hmmmmmmmm.