There He Is

I cannot recall the temperature that day or what I was wearing. I don’t know the exact time—only that I left work earlier than usual.

I can’t tell you why I crossed the bridge that rose above the tracks instead of passing beneath them, but I don’t believe in coincidences. We are always where we allow ourselves to be.

A train was already at the station, though it wasn’t the one I had planned to take.

I saw him as I descended the stairs. He stood on the platform facing the train, looking the other way, his conductor’s cap set just so.

“There he is,” I said.

I knew nothing about him then, except that he had midnight eyes, a shy, breathtaking smile on a ruggedly handsome face, and salt-and-pepper hair.

I know nothing about him now.

That's a lie.

I do know him, having watched him for months. I know how his mind works, how it plays games with me. How he once tried to be close. How he tries to avoid me now. He works so hard to convince me he doesn't care that I can't think anything but that he cares too much.

He needs control—to balance us alongside everything else he's balancing, to keep me carefully placed.

I need him to hold my hand like he did that morning, when I finally told him my name.

He knelt beside me to plug something into the outlet below my seat.

"It's bothering me that I never introduced myself."

His face was only inches from mine, his cologne—delicate and inviting—lingering in the space between us.

"Oh, really?"

He straightened quickly and looked down at me, surprise softening into a smile.

"My name is Sarah."

"Sarah," he repeated, extending his hand.

I slid my hand into his, my fingers grazing his palm. His skin was soft. His grip, gentle.

"I thought we had met."

"Well," I said, glancing down with a shrug, "I never told you my name."