My mind was working overtime. I had the same. Smelly food breath was the last thing I needed.We talked as though we had known each other for ever. She told me all about her work, travelling the country buying chocolate for her employers shop, about her home, her family. I listened intently, taking in every word, thinking what a beautiful person she was, always happy, never complaining, her eyes sparkling as she moved them in time with her conversation, her sleek brown hair shimmering in the subdued lighting of the hotel's restaurant. Suddenly, she stopped.“Oh gosh," she said, “you must think I am a terrible chatterbox. I haven't stopped talking!" Oh, no Sam," I said to her, "I am really enjoying listening to you." I haven't really had anyone to talk to for some time now," she continued, "There is no one at home when I get back and I am out and about with my job." No, it's okay," I said to her, "Really! I am enjoying your company. I am very glad I spoke to you on the platform." Yes,". ” She turned fully to him, faced him head on, her height almost a match to his 6 foot 5. Those expressive eyes developing a slow burn of anger. In her eyes she had never lost the warm woman she had been. A grin now would make that temper explode, would make those green depths sparkle and burn. It took superhuman restraint, but he managed not to grin, not in order to avoid her anger though but because, after such a long time, after having waited almost 10 months to see her again, he was not willing to share her anger, her passion, with others. “Stop what?”“Stop following me.”“I did not follow you to Oxford.”“You bought a chain of leisure centres in London, which is barely an hour away.” Exasperation, an emotion in its own right, its warmth a crumb for his starving soul. “Then you have to stop running.”He expected an eye roll, a snort, possibly even a laugh - he did not expect the sudden rise of tears. The sight clamped an iron fist around his heart, an almost physical ache burning in.
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