The Long Commute

The 7.42 was always full by the second stop, but by some unspoken agreement the two window seats in the fourth carriage were theirs. She read thick novels. He did crosswords in pen. For a year, Ruth and the crossword man sat facing each other five days a week and never spoke a word.

She knew things about him anyway. That he took his coffee black. That he hummed when he was stuck on a clue. That he had a scar across his left thumb, and a wedding ring he had stopped wearing in May.

He knew things about her too, it turned out. That she cried at the end of books and pretended it was hay fever. That she always got off one stop early on Fridays.

In November, the train stopped in a cutting between two stations. Signal failure, the guard announced. Then a fallen tree. Then nothing at all for three hours.

'Eight letters,' he said, at last. 'Calm waiting. Ends in E.'

'Longing,' she said, then counted. 'No. Wait.'

They talked for the rest of the delay. About books and crosswords and the marriage that had ended in May. About her flat with the leaky roof. About the year they had spent pretending not to see each other.

When the train finally moved, they got off together at her stop, one early, and walked through the drizzle to her flat without discussing it. He kissed her in the hallway with his coat still on. The crossword lay unfinished on her kitchen table until morning.

The answer, she worked out over breakfast, was patience. He had known it all along.