The Valentine’s Date
A tinny voice announced the arrival of the 6.30 train from Birmingham into Platform 6. I was making my way up from the underground with the hoards on their way home. I’d been promised a night of romance. It was February 15th.
“But your show de-rigs at 2.30pm on the 14th - why can’t you just come straight home for a change?”
I was jostled from behind to keep moving - the flow of bodies taking me endlessly upward to the mainline station. I looked across at the commuters going downward into the bowels of London. A woman was holding a large bouquet of roses, ignoring them. Another afterthought.
“Gotta go to the after-show drinks. It’s tradition. I’ll make it up to you - meet me off the train on the 15th. We’ll have our romantic dinner then. Dress up if you want.”
I stepped off the escalator onto the concourse of the main station. Even in the rush I spotted him easily holding some garage-bought flowers in one hand and waving at me with the other.
“Look at you! You look amazing.”
“You didn’t dress up?”
“Tonight’s all about you Babe.”
“Right. Where to then?”
“Anywhere you like. As long as I can get a burger I’ll be happy. You know I hate that shit you eat.”
I stared for a second before answering quietly, “Well … I won’t eat shit any more.”
I could tell by his smug grin that pleased him.
Then I turned and walked away.