At the Train Station

Here’s what I thought would happen when HarryPotter came to Dundee:

I’d meet him at the station. We’d give each other a hug, with him shuffling about a bit. I spotted a pub on the way to the train station (actually, I spotted several, but there was one in particular that looked promising, the right crowed but open tables to sit and talk) which we’d stop at on the way home. I’d ask about MNM, and get all the gossip. The conversation would be stilted at first, but eventually we’d come around to being in each other’s company again.

He’d crack a joke (he always does), and I’d say something ridiculous. Soon we’d be back to being mates. It wouldn’t be that hard, as we’ve been talking on the phone and texting since I’ve been back from the Gap Summer. We’d grab a bite to eat, then pick up a bottle on the way back to the flat where we’d joke about my White Goods predicament. We drink and talk until morning, or pass out trying.

Here’s what actually happened:

Dundee station is subterranean. You have to go down these stairs to the barrier, and just wait there. There wasn’t much room, so I stood by the vending machine keeping an eye on the train board. Finally it arrived – the 18.52 from Glasgow– and he came through the doors. We was wearing a wooly hat, which he pulled off as he walked across the station. 

I waved and smiled. I couldn’t help myself. It had been nearly a year, but he was the same. Exactly the same. It’s as if his hair hasn’t grown in that time; the follicles were waiting for me to appear before they could get any longer. I recognised his t shirt (freyed at the collar), and the same old zip-up hoodie under his tatty brown jacket.

He saw me and he smiled back. That same lovely smile.

He came through the barriers, walked right up to me, dropped his bag, put his hands on my face and kissed me.

I closed my eyes and I could smell the soap on his skin. He must have left work early, and gone home to shower before getting on the train. As he kissed me, his lips smooth from chap stick, I thought about how he went home to clean-up before seeing me. I know it’s odd, but that meant nearly as much as the kiss.

He pulled away and leaned his head down so that his forehead touched mine and said, ‘Should we make this our thing. Kissing in train stations?’

My hands were still around his neck, and I put my hands through the dark curls coming down over the top of his ears. And I laughed, and he kissed me again.

The pub, the small talk, everything was out the window. We were in a taxi heading back to my flat. It would have been a fairly short walk, it took me no more than twenty minutes to get to the train station, but that was just too far. We needed to get home, and fast. In the back of the taxi, he pulled my legs across his lap and kissed me again. I pushed the hair out of his faced and kissed him.

Outside the flat, HarryPotter threw the driver a ten pound note and didn’t wait for the change.

He’s asleep now on the mattress on the floor. I feel kind of weird typing all this. I know he could read the blog. But I also don’t mind. It’s as if the last ten months and twenty five days never happen. But at the same time, I won’t tell you all the gory details because…well, I don’t know. It’s seems different now. That’s it, like time’s never passed, but it’s all new and better. Yeah, something like that.


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