I was a little put out when the woman sat next to me. My irritation at her intervention into my introspection soon turned to a testosterone yearning. She was young, say twenty three and with the kind of looks that attuned a man to his loins. She smelled absolutely sensational to. Clean.
We engaged in small talk. I offered her a mint, she took one. I swelled slightly.
“I must say, I find trains terribly creative,” she said, “I write all my best work on them.” Her voice was sweet and virtuous, like the warm memories of a childhood Christmas where you did get all the presents you wanted and not just the Christian Crossword Annual, a bucket and a pencil sharpener.
“You write then?” I asked.
“Yes. Many find the lonely direction a writer must travel fearful and irrational but for me, shorn of musical or artistic ability my true calling is through the word, written or spoken. And trains, these capsules of longing, desire, deceit and so many other traits of that which we call humanity, nourish my sense of creativity.”
One word for it. Flake.
But a fit and gorgeous flake who smelled nice and can enunciate like the best of them. Nice knockers to. Did I mention the knockers? Play it long. Might be a chance of some slap and tickle here. If I play my cards right.
“Would you like to hear one of my pieces?”
“Sure!”
She rummaged in her bag and pulled out a Diary. It had “2006” embossed in Gold Lettering on the front. Worrying. The diary fell open at March 24th. And in that page was a folded piece of paper, bevelled around the edges from age and wear. She unfolded the paper and said,
“I call this piece “To Work Through The Black Shards of Hate”. She cleared her throat,
I leave the house and walk to the train station
I catch the train
On the rails it goes
Clickety Clack
Clickety clack
Clickety clack
Clickety clack
Clickety clack
Clickety clack
Clickety clack
Then it stops at the next station
I get off the train
And go to work
I leave work and walk to the train station
I catch the train
On the rails it goes
Clackety click
Clackety click
Clackety click
Clackety click
Clackety click
Clackety click
Clackety click
Then it stops at the next station
I get off the train
And go home.
She carefully folded the paper, “What did you think?” There was expectation in her voice.
“Very powerful…….very……symmetrical.”
“Thank you very much! It took three years to write. I took ages to decide on seven or eight Clickety Clacks and Clackety Clicks.”
“Really.”
I got off at the next station and walked home. No sex and she ate the rest of my mints.
Clickety clack me arse.
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