Young Writers Society

“It’s 4:00am,” I mumbled sleepily to myself, “time to get up." I forced myself out of bed, ignoring the fact I was suffering from severe sleep deprivation. But that wasn't important, only Charlotte, my angel was what mattered. Charlotte would usually get the 5:17 to the city. She never missed it. Although, there was that one time where she caught the 5:07 instead, but that was unusual. She won’t do that today.

I put on my plain blue jeans and my heavy grey-hooded coat. The hood went on of course. I didn’t want breakfast, I couldn’t wait. It seemed like a better idea to just drive to the train station early.

It was a gloomy day outside, the sky cramped with clouds pusy with precipitation. Like the day Mum abandoned me at the doorstep, at the hands of my mentally ill Father. I stood stiffly and silently on the front doorstep, watching in awe as she packed the last the last of her things in front of me, expressionless. Stone faced. “Mum!” I screamed, “Muuuum!” I began to cry, dripping tears all over the doorstep. Mum didn’t flinch; she didn’t turn back, showed no hesitation to leave. She simply hopped in her car and drove off casually as if she was heading off to work for the day. But she never came back.

I drove my car slowly; I needed to at least kill a little bit of time. I did a few detours, which gave me time to contemplate stuff. Think about life, and what I was doing.

Charlotte. She is so perfect, so busy all the time. Never bored, never has nothing to do.

Me? I’m a loner, a pathetic cashier at a milk bar with a lousy salary and wounded cat from the pound.

Despite our obvious dissimilarities to each other, I feel that we connect somehow. In fact, just thinking about that possibility tinkers with my tickly side. I shudder and chuckle with ecstasy at the thought of me being the one for Charlotte.

I must have a connection with someone. Anyone, anyone at all. I’ve never really been close to anyone. Not many people have paid much attention to me either. When I was younger, Daddy would just drink and write, drink and write. Splashing his rants of insanity on paper, 24 hours a day without speaking to me or showing any kind of affection toward me. We had a somewhat you’d call; dry relationship. “Dad?” I’d say, “What is there to eat?” and he’d respond briefly, “There’s cash on the bench. Get yourself some food up the street.”

I mean, it would make sense wouldn't it? I can’t stop thinking about her; I wear the same perfume as her. We shop at the same supermarket, and I simply cannot go a day without at least having the opportunity to briefly admire her spectacular physique.

I’m convinced we are meant to be. I hope one day soon she’ll realise and we will be together.

The deep fantasising must’ve occurred for longer than it seemed, because there was only one more block until the train station.

The suspense of driving up the main road is always unbearably exhilarating. But it is still an addictive feeling, and painfully satisfying. Being able to see Charlotte every day, is kind of similar to feeding a pet so it survives. My longing being the pet and Charlotte being the feed.

The train station is up ahead. Its 5:10. I happen to find the perfect car spot, directly across from the station but on the opposite side of the road. The distance is fitting to the occasion.

I spend the next three minutes jacking off to a sexual fantasy, of course about Charlotte. I’d do so many things to her.

To pleasure her would be a gift from God himself. And God is an immaculate being, so that would be saying something.

Its roughly 5:14 when Charlotte pulls up in her silver Prius, right by the train station entrance. I don’t even have to look at her number plate to know its KYS 785.

She steps out of her vehicle casually, unfocused on the time. Taking it all in her stride, not letting time consume her. Time is a human invention, a concept necessary for those who care about wasting it.

She looks delicious as always. Her furry coat cuddles her, her short skirt revealing her black tinted stockings and long legs, and red high heels.

Usually I don’t get out of the car. I’ve never had the courage to get out and greet her. But today I feel is a new day. A day to remember. A day to inspire.

It could be the day we finally connect on a higher level.

I thrust my thighs as she slips her hair behind her ear. There is a tingle down below. I gasp, breathless from arousal. She goes to close her door, after she collects her ham bag.

She is going to miss her train.

I clutch myself down below, squeezing it with deliberation and lustful intent.

It’s time to get out.

Charlotte goes to head upstairs to the platform. I lunge out of my car door impulsively, oblivious to the honking car horns I fling myself across the road.

I pant, nearly weep with cheer.

Its one minute until 5:17 and the train is nearing the platform.

I sprint, tripping up the stairs. Rejecting the help from an elderly woman who noticed my fall.

Charlotte is on the platform now. Waiting calmly and collectively-the opposite to me now.

Opposites attract.

Only 15 more steps to go until I reach the top of the platform, but the train has pulled up and the doors have opened.

She is going to enter the doors, when I take a chance to shout out her name; “Chaaaaaaarloootte!”

I stop in my tracks, alive with euphoria, waiting for her to turn.

She pauses before she enters the train doors, turns slowly, appearing confused.

We make eye contact.

She stares bluntly.

I wave, hoping she’ll retaliate with acception and approach me.

I just know the connection is instant.

There is a brief moment of gazing, but to my dismay, she veers toward the train again. Enters the doors and resorts to playing with her phone.

The train departs as my heartbreak arrives.

My love driven frenzy for her crumples immediately into disgust and fury. I collapse to my knees and sob, humiliated and hurt by rejection. I clutch my head angrily, hoping to God my brains will come oozing out to end my misery.

Why? Why did this happen? I love her. We were meant to be together.

I drop my head in despair. Will anyone care?

At my right, a young man stands. His strong masculine fragrance alerting me of his presence.

Resting his palm on my shoulder, he politely and softly asks “Miss, are you alright?”

I raise my head to his, to get a closer look at his face; beautiful, cleanly shaven baby face.

I only grin with relief, as does he.

What a lovely gentleman. I must know his name.