Random idea that popped into my head while sitting on the subway. First: I feel that I should clarify that this IS fiction. Ahem. Second: This was written entirely on my iPhone. Mostly while on the train to work. Because I have NO TIME TO WRITE ANYMORE.
“The next station is King. King station.”
He’d always intimidated me, a little bit. I knew that under his arrogant facade there was somebody vulnerable and scared. But he didn’t want me to know that, so I pretended I didn’t. And truth be told, sometimes I forgot. He was that good at it. It never could have lasted. He’d never have let anybody get too close.
“The next station is Queen. Queen station.”
It had been a much more innocent time. It made me smile to think about it. Long before things got complicated, there was ice cream at the shopping mall and stolen kisses ’round the corners. No regrets. Nothing to regret.
“The next station is Dundas. Dundas station.”
He never wanted me. I knew this all along, deep down, but it was still a blow when I couldn’t deny it any more. He was so sweet, so charming, but that was just who he was. It wasn’t about me. His wife is lucky to have him.
“The next station is College. College station.”
My favourite mistake. The one you have to make just to have it behind you, to angst, then groan, then laugh. The excitement of knowing that you’ve made the wrong decision. The thing that you miss once you’re old enough to know better, and you can’t get away with making the wrong decision anymore.
“The next station is Wellesley. Wellesley station.”
There’s something almost satisfying about wanting someone you know from the beginning that you can never have. It’s like the soreness after a good workout. You’re in pain, but it’s expected, inevitable, and you understand it perfectly. And once it fades, you’re stronger than you were when you began.
“The next station is Bloor. Bloor station.”
He broke my heart.
“The next station is Rosedale. Rosedale station.”
Sometimes the circumstances align so perfectly that you feel like you should give it a try. You should want this. You should enjoy this. You should do this. It’ll be good for you, in the long run. Maybe it is. But there’s only so long you can keep going on “should”. I feel that I owe him an apology.
“The next station is Summerhill. Summerhill station.”
I don’t know if I believe the claim that opposites attract. Sometimes, opposites just make things a whole lot more work. You try and try and eventually realize that sometimes people just aren’t compatible, and sometimes it isn’t worth the effort. On second thought, opposites do attract. On this I have no doubt. But attraction just isn’t enough on which to sustain a relationship.
“The next station is St. Clair. St. Clair station.”
We were so bad for each other. It was a terrible idea from the start. We knew it. Everyone knew it. We should never have been involved. The longer it went on, the more we destroyed one another beyond repair. Nobody was surprised when it ended in explosion, least of all the two of us. Drama from beginning to end. And it was worth every second of it.
“The next station is Davisville. Davisville station.”
What I liked best was the sense of detachment. Nobody would have guessed. It was our little secret. It was meaningless, worthless, every kind of -less there was, but I liked the idea of it. I liked leaving them behind, nobody having the slightest hint of what was about to happen between us. The concept was much better than the reality.
“The next station is Eglinton. Eglinton station.”
My stop. Or, rather, his stop. Here goes nothing.