All I want to do is Scream

I nearly pushed you under the train this morning. The 8:06 to London Paddington. I saw the way you snarled at me when I said it was freezing, that glint in your eyes that I see so often lately. I would have pushed you and if you clung to the side of the platform I’d have stamped on your fingers and made sure you were down, lying across the tracks, legs akimbo, ready and waiting for the 8:06.

I would have done it, too, but then I’d have been late for work. Plus, you looked so sexy in that red Mrs Claus coat with the white fur trim and the hood up over your silvering hair, faux ermine framing your cheeks, your face peeking through cottony cumulus.

But all the same, I would have enjoyed seeing you getting trapped between the closing doors, if under the train wasn’t an option. ‘Mind the gap. Stand clear of the doors.’ It’s a philosophy, not just a statement.

We sat opposite each other on the train because that fat git beside you wasn’t prepared to swap seats with me. Which is all right with me, really. If I had been next to you, you would have spoken to me. As it was, the noise of the train and the crush of people prevented that. Thankfully.

Through a gap between two people in the aisle between us, I watched you watching me. I knew what you were thinking. You were thinking about maybe getting twin beds to replace the ageing king-size that we currently own. I know how much my touch reviles you. In fact, you were probably thinking about suggesting separate bedrooms, weren’t you?

The fat git beside you picked his nose and flicked it. I saw it land on your coat and I didn’t say anything. If I couldn’t get you under a train, this would have to suffice.

Then I felt like screaming again. You know how I get sometimes. I just have to scream out loud. I clasped my hand over my mouth and clenched my eyes. I could feel you staring at me. You wouldn’t want me to cause a scene, not on a train, not in public. But sometimes I just have to cause a scene, in spite of you. I screamed into my smothering hand so as not to upset you but desperate to piss you off.

When I opened my eyes, you were picking at the seams of your gloves like you didn’t know me, didn’t hear my scream. Thanks.

When we got off the train to go our separate ways, I thought about kissing your cheek. I didn’t. I told you what time I’d be home—maybe a bit later than usual; drinks with the lads. You told me I was getting on in years; shouldn’t drink so much. I decided to have an extra one just to spite you. I do a lot of things to spite you. Have you noticed?

And I’m more than empty inside. I’m dead inside.

I watched you walking away from me, your big green handbag straps slipping from your rounded shoulder as you searched for something within. What were you looking for? Your lip gloss? That old fart in your office—that’s why you wore the new dress today, wasn’t it? That’s why you took longer to do your hair, showering this morning rather than bathing last night, so you’d still be fresh.

You looked back over your shoulder and your smile was brusque and crusty. You didn’t wave. You never wave anymore.

When you stepped out onto the road, I saw the bus before you did. I’m afraid I didn’t scream this time. I didn’t feel the inclination. It was one of those old Routemasters, which is strange because I thought they took them all out of service.

You hit the grill and hitched a ride for a good ten or fifteen feet. When the bus stopped—nowhere near a bus stop—you continued your journey to work of your own volition, feet dancing over the road. Then you were walking on your hands. Then you were mocking an out-of-control bobsleigh, spinning across the road on your back.

When you slumped to a stop outside the newsagent, your face was as red as your jacket. If I didn’t see it happen, I wouldn’t have recognised you.

People screamed, but I didn’t. One man, brave enough to venture forward, straightened out your dress and your dignity before dipping into his pocket for his mobile phone.

And now you lie here, all white and sterile, conversing with me through Morse-code-beeping machines, saying more than you’ve ever said before. And every time you beeped at me, an angry green spike rose and fell on the monitor above you, like a wagging finger.

I should have pushed you under the train like I had wanted to. It would have been better that way. Less suffering. You beeped in response. And I screamed.