Every morning he saw her on the Finchbottom Express, in the same seat, she was a twenty something, a sweet young thing who smiled at him each day, occasionally a “Hello” or “Hi” was exchanged but nothing more profound that that.
The carriage clicked and clacked as it rushed us towards the throng of Abbottsford, the train wheels singing their staccato song and he looked at her and instantly pictured her beside him and holding his hand and she looked up from her book and gave him a quizzical look.
“Can you read my thoughts?” he asked inside his head and promptly decided to think about sports but that didn’t help in the slightest because he then saw with him at the football stadium.
She was a twenty something, a sweet young thing, who looked at the ordinary thirty something, quizzically.
“This is the affect you have on me” he thought “so you had better not read my mind?”
Oh how he would like to brush the hair from her brow, and run his finger through her soft brown curls, before he caressed the softness of her cheek, and kiss those sweet young lips and then carry her off into the sunset, to have her stand beside him at the altar, and at the ecstatic moment of their union he smiles and when he looks across at her he sees that a smile had replaced her quizzical look, briefly before her eyes return to the pages of her book and he knew he would have those same thoughts the next time they travelled together on the train but she would never be his.
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