Bryce and Alexandra Share the Train

PART ONE

Bryce and Alexandra Share the Train

Copyright 2013 by
Bill Rayburn

I emerged from the warmth of my candle-lit foyer into a world that was only lacking in filled ice cube trays and neatly labeled zip lock freezer bags filled with meat and vegetables. The neighborhood was frozen into a still photograph of solid water. Everywhere. Icicles hung from the undercarriages of cars, halting their growth only as they hit the ground.

The power was out, which is why my wife had kindly lit the lower floor of the house with candles. Upstairs in our bedroom I’d laid a fire in the hearth last night and with one strike of a lengthy match, lit it this morning. I had dressed by firelight. I think it was strictly her adherence to reciprocation that propelled her out of the warmth of our bed and down to the cooler ground floor to light my way.

Navigating the first floor after she returned to the warmth of our duvet and the now warming bedroom, was kind of cool as she had lit more than enough candles so I could make coffee, even scan the headlines of the London Times after I retrieved it from the front stoop. She was a good woman.

Without streetlights and with first light about an hour away, it was pitch black as I closed the heavy front door behind me, shutting out the meager candle glow. Darkest just before the dawn, I guess. Suddenly, off to the left and down the Close I was lucky enough to live on, I heard a rhythmic sound. Sort of a sandy scraping noise you might hear at the opening of a Cajun Zydecho band’s set.

Then, to the right began a similar audible sensation, but in a different rhythm. What the hell was that? I listened for a moment, but couldn’t figure it out.

I turned left and headed for the narrow, 50-yard-long alleyway that offered a short-cut through the houses on the Close to the train station, carving three blocks off of my walk each morning. The huge oak door, dungeon-like in its monstrosity and weight, was operated by an old fashioned brass key and some good lad had designed it so it closed upon its own momentum, from either side. The alleyway coming from the close was canopied by shrubs and trees and offered no light at this hour. I felt my way along the icy path, inserted the draconian key, and went through the ritual I’d seen every single person trying to navigate this horizontally-operating drawbridge endure: Fifteen seconds of jiggling to find just the right angle and locate the spring-loaded flange inside the door that unlocked it. On the other side, turning right, the lane out to the street was usually well-lit, though this morning’s powerless state made for a dark, slippery, dangerous 100 feet before the crunch of salt underfoot informed me I’d reached the street and could get a purchase, however tentative.

I heard the telltale groan of the old door and looked back to see my neighbor Alexandra step through in the dying darkness and heard her plunk the door shut behind her. I waited for her. She was a stockbroker and only occasionally went to work at this ungodly hour. Alex was a real looker. I greeted her effusively.

“Good morning, young lady.”

“Oh, hey Bryce. You startled me. Is your power out as well?”

I nodded. “I just hope the trains are still running. I haven’t heard the 6:54 pull in yet. They tend to overreact to ice issues.”

“That they do. It’s 7am now, we’ve got four minutes. Shall we?”

I offered my arm and she snaked her arm through it and we walked around the corner to the station. We had time to buy a Latte, double for her, at the tiny kiosk run by the same bloke for over 40 years, according to him. Warming liquid in hand, we descended the salt encrusted stairway, taking hold on opposite sides to the railing and stepping gingerly. The platform was empty, which was odd. The computerized board in the station had said the next train; the aforementioned 7:04 would be five minutes late. At least it was still scheduled. The 6:54 had been cancelled. The Transport of London, which oversees many of the trains, almost always erred on the side of safety. It was hard to complain about that, but most did when their scheduled train into central London was suddenly cancelled without notice.

Alex and I waited patiently, sipping our coffee.

“How’s business?” I knew she had been recently promoted to senior stock broker at her firm, which was a formidable accomplishment for someone who happened to be both 26 and a woman.

“Well, after my promotion, I’ve found myself right here at this ridiculous hour too damn often for my tastes, and my sleeping habits; waiting on this bloody train. But the money is nice; so I can’t complain. To answer your question, at my level, business is always good, or I wouldn’t be there…or here.”

I nodded. She knew I was an accountant and took the train into central London everyday to toil for the man. I guess we both worked for the man. I even did her taxes last year. She was, I was almost certain, unaware that I was 44 years old. I looked, thankfully, about ten years younger than that.

At 7:10 our train pulled in and we wedged our way into the loaded car. We ended up standing next to each other holding the pole the entire trip into central London, as we expected. Cancelled trains meant major congestion on the cars that remained in operation. I think I didn’t mind the crush of humanity as much as she did, since it was her humanity that I was being crushed against. Alex, a trim almost slight girl of about 5’5”, was often seen running through the neighborhood on weekends in black tights and a sweatshirt, bandana holding back her thick mane. She had an incongruously large chest for such a small frame. Even buses slowed to watch her.

We parted at Vauxhall Station, where she caught a bus for the final leg of her journey as I walked slowly, as if pushing against some gravitational forced, down toward my office. The short walk today was a precarious one, as this part of the city had not planned ahead for the freeze and it was obvious the walkways had been salted sometime after the deep freeze, rendering the gritty stuff on top almost useless.

It was time to start my day counting other people’s money. It would not be nearly as nice and comforting as that train ride had been.

*********************

When Alexandra signed in at the elaborate, gold-trimmed half-moon front desk on the ground floor of her office building, in which her firm held the top four floors, she had an odd thought. Had Bryce been rubbing up against me on purpose, using the crowded train as an excuse? Oddly, she wasn’t put off at all by the thought or possibility. In fact, she was intrigued. She knew he was married, happily married if appearances could be trusted. She liked his wife Consolata, whom everybody called Connie, an Italian woman just a few years older than she was and with a figure like a more plump Sophia Loren. A little too chesty for Alex’s taste, but she imagined Bryce spent some serious time between those pillows.

She blushed at the thought as she got into the elevator for the 26 story ride up. She’d always been friendly with Bryce, and vice versa, and the flirtation had never evolved past the mild stage. His reticence being that she was young and single and thus not a safe target for flirting, and her hesitancy had been from her strong ‘sisterhood of woman’ streak instilled in her by her mom. She could never intrude on another woman’s territory.

But she was intrigued by his almost constant pressure from his right arm on her breasts for the entire 45 minute train ride into London. Intrigued, and maybe even aroused. She never leaned away. She shook herself and hoped no one in the crowded, mirrored lift caught her doing this.

On her lunch hour, she thought again of Bryce, only this time he was between her pillows, so to speak. She grinned, wondering where and why this had come upon her. Was it her impromptu gesture of taking his arm on the way to the station? They’d never actually touched until that moment. Was it his gallant nature, a gentlemanly gesture to ensure her safe passage over the ice? Was she disappointed if that was all it was? But there was no denying the consistent warm pressure on her boobs. He couldn’t have not known those were her tits, could he? She could feel herself blush. Out loud, she said in the middle of a rueful chuckle, “Alex, girl, you need to get your ass laid.”

There was Derrick on the 30th, in International Finance, who’d asked her out a couple of times. She’d found an excuse to say no each time, but she had remained mildly intrigued. He wasn’t as good looking as she preferred her men, but he was funny in a Hugh Grant sort of way, and that would always moisten her knickers. Maybe she would turn the tables and ask him out.

*************

Bryce had had trouble concentrating the entire day. He could not get his neighbor out of his mind. His right arm had suddenly developed the memory of an elephant as it recalled resting on her satellite-transmission-haulting chest. He’d caught her looking at him in a way he simply could not label that may have been saying: What are you doing? Why are you doing it? Aren’t you married? Those are my tits, you know? How old are you?

He knew he should be feeling guilty, but he wasn’t.

When Bryce walked through the door that evening, it was almost 7pm. He typically was home between 6:30 and 7pm, so his wife noticed nothing out of the ordinary. But Bryce had left the office a full hour before he usually did, hoping to guess right the interval where Alex might also try to catch a northbound train. He’d stayed down on the platform at Vauxhall, watching train after train come in, unload, load up and go back out, heading north. No sign of Alex. He’d finally boarded the 5:45pm northbound and slumped sadly on the one remaining seat as the train lurched into motion.

He was sure to leave at the same time the next morning and to his pleasant surprise, she was waiting for him at the opening of the corridor to the dungeon door.

“Good morning,” she said, smiling her 1000 watt smile.

“Indeed. We have lights this morning, and the ice seems to have melted. Two early mornings in a row for you. Unusual?”

She nodded. “Yes, but no longer. I’ve been given a new client list, many of which are incredibly high maintenance. I’ve been asked to get in earlier. Some of them are on the west coast in the states. Which is eight hours earlier than London.”

“Would you believe I deal with the exact same issue? I’ve got two clients with very complex international tax issues, both in San Francisco. I only have a two or three hour window in which I can talk with them. That’s a big reason I go in at this hour.”

“What a coincidence. Three of my US clients are in San Francisco as well.” She flashed her smile again, making Bryce catch his breath. He hoped she didn’t notice, “It’ll be nice to ride with someone I know.”

They were able to find two seats next to each other and this time their thighs remained in contact the entire trip.

Bryce had never even thought of being unfaithful to his wife, and Alex would be the first to tell you she would never play a role in an extra-marital affair.

But that appeared to be where this train was headed.