The Last Train Home

Mara missed the last train by forty seconds.

She stood on the platform watching the red tail lights disappear while Julian laughed behind her.

“Helpful,” she said.

“I didn't say anything.”

“You laughed.”

“At the situation.”

“You laughed at me.”

It was nearly midnight. They had spent the evening at a conference dinner neither wanted to attend, then stayed for one more drink because leaving together had somehow seemed more obvious than staying.

Mara was thirty-six. Julian was thirty-nine. They had worked in neighbouring departments for two years and spent the last six months sending messages that started about work and ended somewhere else.

Nothing explicit. Not quite.

A photograph of Julian cooking at eleven. Mara complaining from bed that she couldn't sleep. A message at 1:14 asking whether he was awake.

He always was.

The board announced the next service at 5:42.

Julian looked at it. “Well.”

“Don't say adventure.”

“I was going to say hotel.”

There was a small hotel across the road. At reception they discovered there was one room left.

Julian looked at Mara. “Your call.”

“One room,” she said.

Upstairs, the room contained one bed and an armchair designed by someone who hated backs.

“I'll take the chair,” Julian said.

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“Mara.”

“We're adults.”

“That has historically not prevented adults making questionable decisions.”

She smiled. “Are you planning one?”

He stopped.

There it was. The thing beneath six months of messages.

“I've thought about kissing you.”

“How often?”

“Enough that answering honestly would damage my professional reputation.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“I've thought about it too.”

Julian stepped closer. “Tell me if this is a bad idea.”

“It is absolutely a bad idea.”

He waited.

Mara took his tie in her fist and pulled him towards her.

“But I didn't say no.”

Their first kiss was careful for perhaps three seconds. Then six months arrived at once.

His hands settled at her waist. Mara pushed his jacket from his shoulders and kissed him harder, backing him against the wall.

He laughed into her mouth.

“What?”

“You're less subtle in person.”

“You've had six months.”

She unbuttoned his shirt. He caught her wrist gently.

“Still yes?”

“Yes.”

That changed the room.

His mouth moved to her neck. Her dress had a zip down the back. He found it, paused, and she nodded.

The dress slipped to the carpet.

“Professional reputation gone?” she asked.

“Completely.”

They moved towards the bed badly, knocking into the chair and nearly taking a lamp with them. There was nothing cinematic about it. That made it better.

Mara pulled him down beside her. His hand travelled over her thigh, then beneath her underwear.

She inhaled sharply.

“Okay?”

“Yes. Don't stop.”

He didn't.

She opened her legs and watched his face while his fingers found the rhythm that made her stop trying to be quiet.

Afterwards she pushed him onto his back, opened his trousers and wrapped her hand around him.

His eyes closed.

“No,” she said.

He opened them.

“I've spent six months wondering what you look like when you lose control. I'm watching.”

She lowered her mouth onto him.

Julian swore.

Later, when they finally had sex, it was slower than either expected. She climbed over him and lowered herself onto him carefully, both watching the moment anticipation became real.

Julian held her hips. Mara moved.

There was no rush now. No train to catch. No message to interpret.

“Worth missing it?” he whispered.

“Ask me at 5:42.”

At five fifteen they dressed in grey morning light.

On the platform Julian suddenly looked uncertain in a way he hadn't been naked.

“So what happens Monday?”

“Monday we go to work.”

“And this?”

Mara handed him his coffee.

“This wasn't an accident, Julian.”

The train approached.

She took his hand before the doors opened.

That answered enough.