They were whispers at first, garbled murmurs in the background as I reflected on my day. The frenetic pace, the telephone calls and harsh letters demanding urgent action. Tantrums from the Office Diva and cackles from the Wise Ones, beaming as they watched her almost fall.
Sometimes, the photocopier, in spite of its imperfections, can seem one’s lone civil acquaintance against the backdrop of ‘office etiquette’.
‘Two more years.’ I heard her say. Through the murmurs an occasional sentence or concept invaded the polite indifference with which I tried to regard my fellow passengers.
She was sitting behind me. I thought about tomorrow’s business meeting. It was going to involve difficult negotiation; how would I handle it?
‘Two more years, then we could afford this. I mean, I’d have to give up work for a while.’
‘I’ll support you,’ he said. ‘Both of you.’
Maintaining indifference became increasingly difficult. I rested my head against the window of the carriage and tried to sleep but they weren’t whispers anymore.
‘We both make just enough money now,’ she replied. ‘How will we keep both cars on the road? And what about the honeymoon? We’ve been planning that for so long.’
Try to sleep. It’s not your concern. Apathy is what society wants. Don’t even twitch in case they suspect you’re listening. What was the name of that tax agent my father recommended?
‘So we’ll sell one of the cars. As for the honeymoon, it’s just a holiday and we can take that later.’ What emotion was that in his voice? Fear? Perhaps, but I wasn’t really listening.
‘In two years we can buy a house,’ she said.
‘I’m not in that much of a hurry to be tied to a mortgage,’ he replied.
‘Do you want me to have it?’ Her voice had less emotion than his. Although still resting against the window, I was wide awake and listening. I couldn’t help it; I was beginning to feel.
‘It’s your decision,’ he replied. ‘Do whatever you want to do.’
‘It’s not what I want to do,’ she said, ‘it’s what I have to do. We need to get a good start. The timing’s just wrong.’
There was a shuffle. I think he began to read his paper. No more whispers, no more murmurs but inside my head, a nagging pain. I tried to calculate how far away the train was from my station when a young mother got up to leave, holding her toddler. The voices started again.
‘I couldn’t be like that.’ She said softly. I guessed she must have noticed the stain on the young woman’s tee-shirt. I noticed the smiles and giggles as she rubbed noses with her child.
‘I wouldn’t mind,’ he said, sadly, ‘but it’s your decision.’ By now an air of hopelessness had entered his voice. The next station was theirs. As they walked past my seat I detected the scent of something heady; Georgio maybe or Calvin Klein. He walked quickly ahead of her and I noticed that they became separated while making their way to the ticket barrier.
By the time the train arrived at my station my headache had escalated into a migraine. I just made it to my car before the tears came. I reclined back in the driver’s seat and closed my eyes.
Through the pain I found myself praying. Praying for the little soul who will never bless this world and grieving yet another baby, just like the one that I lost, who will never have the chance to be born.