The morning sky was muffled by a grey fleece of low cloud.  The sun made a half-hearted attempt to peer through, without any success.  Although the trees shimmered with leaves of brown and gold, tempting us with rich nuts and berries, this was the time for the first frosts of winter to creep in; numbing any inclination to spend more time outside than was necessary.

The frosts were gone by mid-morning; but in the early hours of daylight, the window panes were misty with condensation, as we succumbed and turned on the heating for the first time since spring.  It was a sad time, when we accepted the end of the year, and knew it would be a full six months before we saw light and hope again.

Across the land the change of seasons was evident.  In the city the streets were cold and sombre.  Up in the highlands, the lone wolf howled, and rivers ran cool and clear with the first storms after the summer.  The empty beaches were hazy, as the northern currents chilled the seas.  Giant cotton-reels punctuated the quiet countryside showing the harvest was gathered.  Sheep huddled together against the dropping temperatures, and in the barns the horses rested on piles of warm hay.  

She reminded me of one of those horses; her thick, chestnut mane reined in by a swinging ponytail, and she stood with a certain wide-eyed awareness of other travellers arriving on the platform.  This must be her first time on the commuter train.  Her bag was full of books, poking out through the canvas sides at odd angles.  Occasionally she’d shift this burden from one shoulder to the other.  I guessed she was a student, dressed simply in jeans and a knitted jacket, with her textbooks yearning for the first day of term.  Her newness radiated out along the platform and I could feel her hopefulness and excitement.

Although the station clock marked the passing seconds, her feet stomped a rhythm in parallel.  The sound of her boots told me when two minutes had passed.  She clearly wished she had worn her coat instead, as her hot breath mingled with the cooler air.  Breathing into her cupped hands only relieved the chill for a moment.  The train was still not due for 10 minutes; due in part to the cold and in part to agitation, she carried on moving restlessly from one foot to the other.

More people swept onto the platform. The wind brought with it new faces and debris, circling and whooshing around the station. Some travellers stood reading newspapers, whilst others headed straight for the small cart selling hot drinks.  They greeted the coffee vendor with a cheery hello.  Clasping their polystyrene chalices, they inhaled the rising steam and bitter scent of the coffee.  The girl looked longingly at the hot cups.

The platform became a sea of murky browns and blacks; the colours of bright summer apparel replaced by dark overcoats and suits to match the falling leaves and twigs.  I noticed a glimpse of a purple tie here, and a red handkerchief there; placed surreptitiously in an attempt to be individual.  The crowd of legs lining the platform were a dim blur; That morning thousands of feet were confined in woollen socks, placed carefully into sensible shoes, to be walked along miles of underground, city streets and offices.  They merged together like the oscillating limbs of one enormous millipede.

He stood in the centre of the platform,  wearing the same lacklustre uniform of a dark suit, dull black shoes and briefcase.  I only noticed him because he was on crutches.  His foot was encased in a bright blue ski-boot affair, and I imagined his injury to be the result of something sports related.  Football or rugby perhaps?  I realised I was a snob, when I assumed it must be rugby; he looked well-educated and intelligent. What a generalisation. It was too early in the day for such startling prejudices.  I glanced back over at the girl to see what she was doing.  

She was smiling at the young man; her ears were pricked.  I looked back to see if he gave any reaction.  He caught her scent. He reciprocated the smile.  Then he gave a slight nod of the head.  It was like a provocative tennis match; the commentary ran through my head.  Her turn; bigger smile.  His turn; an intense gaze.  One flick of the ponytail.  Another smile.  A coy head toss.  A shy downward glance.  A peek from behind her fringe.  A cough into his chest.

The sound of the train finally pulling up at the station broke my concentration.  The crowd on the platform surged forward.  Hardly anyone exited the carriage.  This was rush hour; it would be as fruitless as trying to swim against the tide.

I watched to see which carriage the young man and girl entered.  As he struggled with the steps, she went over to help him; holding his briefcase and one of his crutches.  He said thanks. She said don’t mention it.  Their first exchange.  Looking back now, their only exchange.

I got into the same carriage to watch them.  In the course of a typical working week, I would  grasp anything to remove me from the banal. It was my desperation that drove me to look on at car wrecks and fights in the streets.  The flash of blue lights and sound of a siren was my salvation.

A woman offered him her seat, but he was more comfortable standing up, leaning on his crutches.  The girl was seated opposite him.  If he had reached out, he could have stroked her hair.  Although they maintained their separate spaces, I could still sense the potential chemistry flowing between them, and I waited.  I desperately wanted to be a part of it.

It was uncomfortably musty.  My nostrils detected a mixture of perfume, sweat and shoe leather. How could we put ourselves through this everyday?  I thought of a leaflet I’d seen, calling for action against live animal transportation.  Pigs and chickens crammed onto lorries, meant to carry half their number.  Unable to eat, move or sometimes stand, the images on the leaflet graphically demonstrated the atrocities. Sometimes they would attack each other in frustration , and cannibalise any animal who was too weak to last the journey. Eventually they would arrive at the slaughterhouse, only to be butchered and processed.  I couldn’t get them out of my mind.  I had the intention of arranging regular payments from my bank account to aid the animal charity which promised to relieve these conditions.  Looking back now, somehow with the pace of daily life and more pressing demands, I never got around to it, and my good intentions passed in vain.

I thought about missed opportunities.  Many moons ago, I used to believe in love at first sight.  In the spring of my youth, I had the occasion to meet a dynamic young man, who swept me off my feet and made me fall in love with him, all in one night.  We were crazy about one another for a year and a half, until I realised that falling in love was the easy part; maintaining it was a different matter.  Since then I joined the category of jaded cynics, who calculated the negatives of risking an open heart.  The conclusion was always the same; an open heart would lead to a broken heart.  I missed the ignorance of my youth; never again would I rush into an encounter so freely.

The girl was still young enough to have the benefit of ignorance. She could still have romantic ideals and believe the world was a decent place.  Her prince charming could be out there somewhere, waiting to rescue her from a future of disappointments and sorrow.  I wanted her to  approach the young man, and initiate a conversation.  I imagined it would lead to laughter, finding things in common and perhaps the exchange of telephone numbers with the promise of a future date.  The promise of a future together.

I wanted to tell the young man to embrace the moment.  Never again would he be so young and handsome, with the world at his feet.  If he took a chance on the girl, unlimited possibilities for happiness could be his.  I imagined their wedding, the first child, buying their first house, and the years that could follow.  Promotions for him at work.  Some arguments sure, but also the celebrations of summer holidays, birthdays and Christmas.  Fast forward more years, and I had them celebrating their daughter’s graduation, meeting their son’s new fiancé.  The last chapter was his retirement, and their decision to settle away from the city; to grow old together in a cottage on the coast, where grandchildren could visit and they could enjoy the views from their garden out over the ocean.

I should have known I was in for disappointment.  How could I have let the foolish ideas of my heart overwhelm my logic of my mind?  The years had still taught me nothing.  Aside from someone talking into a mobile phone, the carriage was silent.  Each sound of the train tracks passing, brought us closer to London bridge.  Inside I felt panic. I willed either of them to make a move.  Aside from brief glances, he remained rooted to the spot, gazing out of the window, and eventually she became engrossed in reading a newspaper over the shoulder of her neighbour.  My dreams were fading and I stifled the urge to act like a crazy person and begin yelling at them.  It was so near.

Finally we arrived at the station.  One last chance before they lost one another forever. The carriage was filled with hot air and movement and doors began slamming open.  We lunged as one towards the carriage doors, and in that brief moment she looked back at him and smiled.  He bid her farewell with a final nod.  The moment had passed.