each other.
The tannoy system kept performing strange grammatical loops: 'The next station is Lindley. Lindley is the next station.'
I alternated between looking at the dirty, rubbery floor of the aisle and the landscape outside. In the distance, the bare trees turned slowly on the spot as we passed. Closer, the world accelerated: the yellow fields trotted backwards, the hedge was running, and then the gravel of the track was a blur of speeding complexity. In the carriage itself, there was peace: only the shudder of the tracks; the occasional shuffle.
I was thinking about how to break up with Rachel. A couple of weeks in and I was unhappy with the way things were going - or weren't going - and splitting up with her seemed like the best solution out of a bad bunch.
The main problem, as I saw it, was that we seemed to have nothing to say to each other. In my limited experience, the beginning of a new relationship should be full of passion and talk.
There's too much to discover about the other person - in bed and in conversation - but you're compelled to try anyway and it feels great. You want to know what they think about everything, and then you're amazed by what they say. You want to take them to places that mean a lot to you, both to share them and also so that you can see those places in new ways.
With Rachel, there was none of that. Obviously, we had conversations, but there was an awkwardness to them, as though at any moment one of us might give a one-word answer and mess everything up and neither of us was willing to take the risk. And we did have sex, but most of the time it was this perfunctory, passionless fucking. The one-word-answer nerves haunted that too; we just weren't relaxed. Even kissing felt difficult: every kiss felt like the first, like we still weren't sure that the other one actually wanted to.
Next to me, Rachel stirred slightly. I looked at her and she gave me a sleepy smile, then closed her eyes again and shuffled slightly.
But she still didn't lean against me.
'The next station is Saltaire. Saltaire is the next station.'
Only two more stops to go but the journey felt interminable. The train shushed slowly to a halt against the platform, and the doors juddered open. A few people moved on and off, but Saltaire was a dead village and hardly anyone travelled to or from here. Soon, the doors closed, and then the train jerked once and whispered off towards the city. The whisper built up to a rush; the loud clatter of the tracks returned.
So: why hadn't I broken up with her already? I really wasn't sure. Perhaps the niggling doubt I was entertaining was born out of fear. I'd never broken up with anyone in my life; it had always been the other way around. There were all kinds of things to consider.
What would she say if I told her? What would her family think? I'd met them the previous night and they seemed nice; I didn't want her or them to hate me. What could I even say? There was nothing I could pin down exactly, beyond 'we don't get on', and that wasn't true because a lot of the time we did. It would be a mystery to Rachel. Give it time, she would say; we do get on; we do have things in common.
And a lot of me wasn't sure it would be right: why would I want to give up on this - someone who was prepared to take that chance on me? Perhaps it wasn't perfect, but what did I want from a relationship? Nothing was ever perfect, and it was stupid to expect that or even look for it. I should just be grateful I had someone who wanted me. That was a huge bonus. The rest, I could work on.
'The next station is Shipley. Shipley is the next station.'
Deep down I knew that I would stay with her, and my thoughts were circling that uncomfortable truth like an animal caught in a trap. Was it sensible? Was I selling myself short? I wanted to get up and run.
It's not right. It's not--
But what wasn't it, exactly? What I'd been promised in fairytales?
The train rattled out of Shipley and bore down on the edge
The tannoy system kept performing strange grammatical loops: 'The next station is Lindley. Lindley is the next station.'
I alternated between looking at the dirty, rubbery floor of the aisle and the landscape outside. In the distance, the bare trees turned slowly on the spot as we passed. Closer, the world accelerated: the yellow fields trotted backwards, the hedge was running, and then the gravel of the track was a blur of speeding complexity. In the carriage itself, there was peace: only the shudder of the tracks; the occasional shuffle.
I was thinking about how to break up with Rachel. A couple of weeks in and I was unhappy with the way things were going - or weren't going - and splitting up with her seemed like the best solution out of a bad bunch.
The main problem, as I saw it, was that we seemed to have nothing to say to each other. In my limited experience, the beginning of a new relationship should be full of passion and talk.
There's too much to discover about the other person - in bed and in conversation - but you're compelled to try anyway and it feels great. You want to know what they think about everything, and then you're amazed by what they say. You want to take them to places that mean a lot to you, both to share them and also so that you can see those places in new ways.
With Rachel, there was none of that. Obviously, we had conversations, but there was an awkwardness to them, as though at any moment one of us might give a one-word answer and mess everything up and neither of us was willing to take the risk. And we did have sex, but most of the time it was this perfunctory, passionless fucking. The one-word-answer nerves haunted that too; we just weren't relaxed. Even kissing felt difficult: every kiss felt like the first, like we still weren't sure that the other one actually wanted to.
Next to me, Rachel stirred slightly. I looked at her and she gave me a sleepy smile, then closed her eyes again and shuffled slightly.
But she still didn't lean against me.
'The next station is Saltaire. Saltaire is the next station.'
Only two more stops to go but the journey felt interminable. The train shushed slowly to a halt against the platform, and the doors juddered open. A few people moved on and off, but Saltaire was a dead village and hardly anyone travelled to or from here. Soon, the doors closed, and then the train jerked once and whispered off towards the city. The whisper built up to a rush; the loud clatter of the tracks returned.
So: why hadn't I broken up with her already? I really wasn't sure. Perhaps the niggling doubt I was entertaining was born out of fear. I'd never broken up with anyone in my life; it had always been the other way around. There were all kinds of things to consider.
What would she say if I told her? What would her family think? I'd met them the previous night and they seemed nice; I didn't want her or them to hate me. What could I even say? There was nothing I could pin down exactly, beyond 'we don't get on', and that wasn't true because a lot of the time we did. It would be a mystery to Rachel. Give it time, she would say; we do get on; we do have things in common.
And a lot of me wasn't sure it would be right: why would I want to give up on this - someone who was prepared to take that chance on me? Perhaps it wasn't perfect, but what did I want from a relationship? Nothing was ever perfect, and it was stupid to expect that or even look for it. I should just be grateful I had someone who wanted me. That was a huge bonus. The rest, I could work on.
'The next station is Shipley. Shipley is the next station.'
Deep down I knew that I would stay with her, and my thoughts were circling that uncomfortable truth like an animal caught in a trap. Was it sensible? Was I selling myself short? I wanted to get up and run.
It's not right. It's not--
But what wasn't it, exactly? What I'd been promised in fairytales?
The train rattled out of Shipley and bore down on the edge
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