The 8:15 to Clarington wasn’t late, exactly. It was frozen .
She was standing by the rear door, looking out at the frozen platform. Dark curls, a silver ring on her thumb, a paperback in her hand. The title: The Art of Small Cruelties . I laughed out loud. The sound died in the thick, still air. time-stop train ~freeze time and play naughty pranks!
And waited.
I stepped close. Too close. She couldn’t object. I traced a finger along her sleeve. Then I pulled her ponytail elastic out, just to see her hair fall. Then I unbuttoned the top button of her coat. Just to see. Then the next. The 8:15 to Clarington wasn’t late, exactly
But I knew. And I’d never un-know what I almost became when no one was watching. The 8:15 to Clarington wasn’t late