Travelling Boy

T A E H Y U N G

Monday, 8 July 2013

Morning

It's a relief to be back on the 8.04. Its not that I can't wait to get into London to start my week- I don't particularly want to be in London at all. I just want to lean back in the soft, sagging velour seat, feel the warmth of the sunshine streaming through the window, feel the carriage rock back and forth and back and forth, the comforting rhythm of wheels on tracks. I'd rather be here, looking out at the houses beside the track, than almost anywhere else.

There's a faulty signal on this line, about halfway through my journey. I assume it must be faulty, in any case, because its almost always red; we stop there most days, sometimes just for a few seconds, sometimes for minutes on end. If I sit in carriage D, which I usually do, and the train stops at this signal, which it almost always does, I have perfect view into my favourite trackside house: number fifteen.

Number fifteen is much like the other houses along this stretch of track: a victorian semi, two storeys high, over-looking a narrow, well-tended garden which runs around twenty feet down towards some fencing, beyond which lie a few meters of no man's land before you get to the railway track. I know this house by heart. I know every brick, I know the colour of the curtains in the upstairs bedroom (beige, with a dark-blue print), I know the paint is peeling off the bathroom window frame and that there are four tiles missing from a section of the roof over on the right-hand side.

I know that on warm summer evenings, the occupants of this house, namjoon and seokjin, sometimes climb out of the large sash window to sit on the makeshift terrace on top of the kitchen-extension roof. They are perfect, golden couple. Namjoon has a great  laugh. Jin is one of those tiny bird men, a beautiful, pale skinned with blonde hair. He has the bone structure to carry that kind of thing off, sharp cheek bones, a fine jaw.

While we're stuck at the red signal, I look for them. Jin is often out there in the mornings, especially in the summer, drinking her coffee. Sometimes, when I see him there, I feel as though he sees me too, I feel as though he looks right back at me, and I want to wave. I'm too self-conscious. I don't see namjoon quite so much, he's away a lot with work. But even if they're not there, I about what they might be up to. Maybe this morning they've both got the day off and Jin is lying in bed while joon makes breakfast, or maybe they've gone out for a run together, because that's the sort of thing they do. (jungkook and I used to run together on Sundays, me going at slightly above my normal pace, him at about half his, must so we could run side by side.) Maybe Jin is upstairs in the spare room, painting, or maybe they're in the shower together, jin hands pressed against the tiles, his hands on his Jins hips.

Evening.

Turning slightly towards the window, my back to the rest of the carriage, I open one of the little bottles of Chenin Blanc I purchased from the Whistleshop at Euston. Its bit cold, but it'll do. I pour some into a plastic cup, screw the top back on and slip the bottle into my backpack. It's less acceptable to drink on the train on a Monday, unless you're drinking with company, which I am not.

There are familiar faces on these trains, people I see every week, going to and fro. I recognise them and they probably recognise me. I don't know whether they see me, though, for what I really am.

It's a glorious evening, warm but no to close, the sun starting its lazy descent, shadows lengthening and the light just beginning to burnish the trees with gold. The train is rattling along, we whip past namjoon and seokjins place, they pass in a blur of evening sunshine. Sometimes, not often, I can see them from this side of the track. If there's no train going the opposite direction, and if we're travelling slowly enough, I can sometimes catch a glimpse of them out on their terrace. If not - like today- I can imagine them. Jun will be sitting with his feet up on the table out on the terrace, a glass of wine in his hand, Namjoon standing behind him, his hands on his shoulders. I can imagine the feel of his hands,the weight of them, reassuring and protective. Sometimes I catch myself trying to remember the last time I had some meaningful physical contact with another person, just a hug or a heartfelt squeeze of my hand, and my heart twitches.