Any time now

Many stories have already been told, written, read and reread. Many but ours. So far. So good? We’re on c2c train heading to Fenchurch Street in London. Here in England with its dampness and all I often end up with a ponytail or a bun, a couple of hairpins are supposed to fix it. Today is no exception, for Leigh-on-Sea is goddamn windy again. We had breakfast and took a walk to the station. We got lost in the too similar to each other little side-streets. We were talking, laughing, holding hands, crossing the streets where we shouldn’t have and you kept on forgetting about the left-side traffic, which I find so irresistibly cute about you. The wind rumpled my hair and you fished out the hairpins. You’re fiddling with them now, and I love looking at your long, slender fingers. I’m sitting at the window and we’ve just passed Upminster. What are we gonna do in London today? Perhaps it’s best to leave behind all plans and intentions and go in for a complete impromptu. Each stop the train makes adds people and it’s becoming harder to be invisible behind the tall seats. I’m writing in my Moleskine, you’re trying to figure out the TweetDeck on your iPhone 4. You’re holding my left hand in yours. You’re caressing my fingers driving me to a mute ecstasy. I feel like stroking your unruly black hair, like removing your specs. We are both sleepy and slow today, which is no wonder. I couldn’t go to sleep last night and kept you awake. We overslept and missed at least two or three alarms on my iPod, but, nevertheless, the stubborn ducks kept on quacking. Hate’em! We then shivered under the shower cursing the forever chilly old English houses… I can’t go on with this when you’re not by my side. Forgive me all the present and past tenses I used. It’s Fenchurch now and I must be off.