Lucid - Part 1

First of a two-part series. Dreamy romance gone wrong? Even the sweetest encounters can leave a bad taste in the mouth.

You hate to see it, sleepers on the Underground. Talking to yourself, I understand. Couldn’t do your makeup at home? Fine. Even eating on the go is excusable. But sleeping? Please. Keep it to yourself.

That said… it’s been a long week.

I open my eyes and realise I’m not only tired but ashamed. Shame: somehow both on the in and outside, like how my chin stubble scrapes my throat as my head lolls forward. Thankfully, I’m alone in the carriage, so what’s the harm in letting my eyes…just…

‘--this yours?’ She asks from my left. I turn. Business casual suit and tee, hair all volume and curls, offering me a familiar-looking pen in her slender fingers. Her smile is friendly and pretty and kind. For sure she saw me sleeping.

‘Uh, no,’ I lie. You may be surprised to learn that I try not to lie, mostly because I’m not very good at it. She smiles again. The kind kind you give a child to encourage them taking another stab at the truth. ‘I, um, yup. Err. Thanks, I guess?’ Of course, I take the pen. ‘Umm… Yup.’

“Yup”?! This is why I don’t sleep in public. I’m stammering like a teen with a crush on his teacher. But the part of my brain that moves my mouth wants to get closer to hers, and the part that handles words is yelling that I’m an idiot and a creep and also an idiot.

But it’s late, and I’m tired, and there’s still another twenty minutes till my stop. I go to push my glasses back up my nose only to remember (read: realise) that I’m wearing my contact lenses. Folding up my newspaper, I leave it open at the puzzles, as if to suggest that my eyes might only be closed to better ponder six across in the cryptic crossword: secret love for vague article, more like armour? (5).

An empty carriage and she takes the seat next to mine, takeaway cup in one hand, phone in the other. The layered smell of perfume, shampoo, fabric conditioner, all mingling with her drink. At first I think it’s tea, delicate like a fine china cup, but then it thickens and sweetens like over-syruped coffee: hot, spiced with lingering traces of whipped cream. It’s powerful, not unpleasant. It smells like Christmas. It smells like dozing off on the sofa with the radiator on full blast.

Sleep is an appointment you know is coming, but with no idea when. Sometimes I lie in bed for hours, on my phone, with a book, staring at a page, waiting for my name to be called. Some people have a knack for turning up just in time, avoiding the awkwardness of the waiting room. Same with love, really. Some people have a knack for it. But sleep or romance, dream or nightmare, one minute you’re sure it’ll last forever, and the next you open your eyes. Maybe you regret it: that it was so brief, that it went on too long, that it happened at all. If love is like falling asleep, then I’m pulling an all-nighter.

The jolt of the train almost makes me all but collapse onto her, spared by the instinct that evolved when we were all still living in trees. I apologise. She says it’s fine. But she’s half my size, and I can tell that it isn’t. We’re pulling into a station. She’s getting up, smiling as if she’s the one saying sorry. I’m so tired, the best I can do is to close my eyes to avoid the sight of her leaving…

---

Continued in part 2. Thank you for reading.

If you liked this short story, you may also enjoy:

The Face in the Lake - A story about a story about when love turns to hate

Beyond the Haze - Two friends find themselves pulled in opposite directions

Or if you prefer non-fiction:

Live in Pink - A gig review/memoir

A Walk in the Woods - A photo essay about the trees from my childhood