BRIEFEST ENCOUNTER
Pieter Mayer

"Excuse me," she whispered.

The clatter and screech of the wheels as the train rounded the bend south of Bowlingbrook made it nearly impossible for Gerald to hear her.

But even if he had heard her, distinctly, he would have refused to acknowledge it.

"Sir..." she peeped.

Gerald's head remained bowed.

“Sir?”

He lowered the pencil with which he’d been checking off stock prices in The Times, closed his eyes and retreated.

He just loved ticking off shares as he commuted home on the five-fifteen. Each mark he made was identical length-wise and perfectly tapered. He adored the precision of the act and felt even more fulfilled when his stocks would occasionally rally.

He was obliged, at home, to show those numbers to Mary, his wife, numbers that she, in turn, would show to her father, a wealthy man who trusted his daughter's judgment a great deal more than his son-in-law's.

In addition to Mary, Gerald had a Basset Hound named Frank and two teen-age daughters, Astrid and Olivia.

He was forty-seven, ye Gods.

His friends found him obsessive about the stock market, and frequently told him so when they lunched together.

Dilettantes!

They left him alone when they traveled on the same train.

“Excuse Me,” she said, interrupting him for the fourth time.

With a pained sigh, he turned to the woman. "Pardon?" he said, in the flattest of flat tones.

"I'm terribly sorry to bother you." She sat across the aisle, alone in her seat among several parcels from Harrods’ department store.

He stared at the woman.

She smiled.

Well... Well... Attractive, he thought. Not attractive, exactly. His nose felt suddenly stuffy and rather large. She's—more than attractive. He turned in his seat, slightly, to see her a bit better. His resolve to be grim had begun to unravel. He folded the newspaper, with a sharp edge to the fold, nervously, neatly, laid it square in his lap. He took off his glasses and gave them a quick wipe with the business hanky he carried for show in the breast pocket of his suit. Then he repeated the action, polished them, giving a single, moist breath to each lens. He settled them back on the bridge of his nose and leaned towards her. Stared a bit longer, something he’d never ever done. He was trembling. She’s absolutely... lovely. Long, soft brown hair, a slightly aquiline nose. He didn’t dare glance at her... well… you know, chest. But did, in spite of himself. It appeared to be heaving, my word. Gerald started to fuss with his tie, attempted to place the knot at the epicentre of his collar. He stroked his chin when he felt she might have caught the fussing. He hoped she hadn't. He also hoped she hadn’t noticed the misalignment. He returned her smile with an awkward grin of his own.

“I am sorry to bother you,” she repeated.

"Bother me?” Her eyes were gorgeous; intensely blue, “It’s no bother at all," he said.

He pulled at his jacket to straighten it, sucked in his gut. Tried not to be obvious. He passed a hand through his thinning hair to see if he’d come uncombed.

"How can I help?" he asked.

She leaned closer, her elbow on the arm of the seat. "I need to know what time the train arrives at Basingstoke. I simply must make a connection." Her delicate white-gloved hand hovered, hung there, inches from the tip of his chin.

"This train?" He looked around to be sure he was on a train. Her fragrance had made him giddy.

"Yes," she said. "I haven't seen the conductor, have you?"

He glanced at the wrist where his watch was usually strapped, but he’d left it at the jeweller's for a cleaning that morning; he'd forgotten. Lord, he thought, I’m senile. His watch could have told him nothing, of course, about conductors or train schedules, or anything else, for that matter, other than the time.

“The conductor?” He felt a crawling dampness in his armpits, a sweltering constriction at the neck. It was still early in the season for the train to be air-conditioned, most never were. He'd gladly have welcomed a blast of cold air. "No, I haven't. Basingstoke, you say?" He cleared his throat, then tugged at the tie's knot; he definitely craved cold air.

"Yes, Basingstoke," she said.

He reached into his inside jacket pocket for a schedule. It unsettled him that he couldn't recall the hour of the train's arrival at Basingstoke, a train he took twice a day, but he'd gone as dull as a brick. They used to announce such things on a loudspeaker. He couldn't recall the last time they’d done that, though. Probably broken like everything else. He pulled out a leathery something, but realized, soon enough, that what he had in his hand was a chequebook.

She smiled again, waited.

He had no schedule. He hadn’t had one for years. What would this goddess think of a man who'd hand her a chequebook instead of a schedule? His face had gone all aflame. "Uh... Well... I'm not sure when the train arrives at Basingstoke."

She laid the hand that had floated before him on top of the other that lay in her lap. "Oh..." she said, "that's too bad." She turned to the window. He suddenly wanted to reach out–-to comfort her. He wanted to caress–-to devour–-those soft-gloved hands.

A chubby eight-year-old boy with a cheek full of bubble gum lumbered down the train's aisle. He stopped short of Gerald. "Excuse me," the boy whined, "I need to go to the loo." Gerald glowered. The boy shrugged, massaged the gum with his tongue, then he popped the bubble, which entombed his jaw in a sticky-pink film. Gerald shuddered. The boy pushed past. Gerald followed the boy's progress with some concern, as though he might suddenly change his mind and reverse course. But the boy continued to the end of the car where he entered the toilet.

The moment the door closed, Gerald, all bright and beaming, turned back to the woman. "But," he declared boldly, "I do know the train gets to Woking at 5:51!"

She continued to gaze out the window. "Woking," she said flatly.

"Exactly!" said he, as though she'd invented the wheel.

She drew an embroidered handkerchief from her purse, dabbed at the moist corners of her sensual mouth, then turned back to Gerald. "I didn't know Woking was on this line."

"It is! It is! Woking is on–-this–-line!" He wanted to fly to the seat beside her, to take her in his arms, but he lacked the will. He knew he'd gone mad, utterly mad, mad as the maddest of mad hatters. "Woking and Basingstoke," he shouted grandly.

His fellow commuters were edgy now. They cleared their throats, rustled their papers, and raised their eyes to heaven, clucking about like fretful hens who’d just avoided the axe.

Gerald sighed and settled down a bit. The hens did too.

She began to gather her belongings, then stopped abruptly. She turned to Gerald and asked. "Woking... is it before or after Basingstoke?"

"Ah–-well–-ah–-I've never thought about it; I always get off at Woking." He could barely catch his breath.

She studied him for a moment, with a placid, curious look on her face, then stood and checked to see if she'd left anything behind on the seat. "Of course," she said quietly.

"I..." he struggled again with his collar, "have family there."

"Ahhhh..." she raised her eyebrows slightly, "family..." then started up the aisle.

He stepped into the passageway behind her, stumbling as he did so. "Well!" he called after her. He'd twisted The Times into a long tube, which he waved, like a baton, in her direction. "It was pleasant chatting with you."

She looked back for an instant, nodded, smiled, and then, “like a misty summer dream, she vanished into the coach ahead” (Gerald's words; he’d scribbled them down on a scrap of newsprint and hidden it in his wallet).

He took three—measured—breaths. Felt his pulse for signs of arrhythmia. Nodded to his fellow commuters to reassure them. Sat, unrolled the paper and tried to do...

...whatever it was he’d been doing.

© Pieter Mayer 2005

Pieter Mayer, who lives in Quebec, Canada, north of Montreal, is a retired procrastinator who's abandoned the field to those even less committed. He splits his time between writing, snow removal and hibernation. He's usually up by the late spring.

on to page 10   

back to the front page