I keep missing the last train from King’s Cross station. Every time it happens, I see the same man, sitting on the same bench on platform 8, clutching a cross around his neck, a single red rose on his lap and in the other hand, the same cup of cold coffee from the kiosk that never seems to close.
Tonight, I sat beside him.
“Waiting for someone?” I asked.
“Waiting to stop waiting,” he replied.
The departure board above us unexpectedly flickers. Platforms are reshuffled, making the sound of a pack of playing cards being riffled. Then the sound of a steam locomotive’s whistle arriving at platform 9 turns my head towards the past. I look for myself on the train, but it’s always empty as if we’ve all been left behind.
When I look beside me again, the man is gone. I feel cross that he left me, but I wonder if he’s ever been there until I look down and see a puddle of coffee and a single red rose on the cold platform floor.
Then I realise where I am again. King’s Cross station was the place he once proposed, had the train not derailed.
Written for Esther Chilton’s Writing prompt: Theme: Cross.
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