“Booth worker” is a terrible job to have at a train station in Sydney. Especially when you are in love.
Well, in love might be a stretch. More like smitten or infatuated. Love is a strong word for the girl across the classroom who you’ve only talked to a handful of times. And it’s an even stronger word for someone who had only just learned your name. In my case, it was a strong word for both of these things. But it’s not so strong a word for one who’s gone away. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, they say.
There was a day when I would be doing my job like any other, selling tickets to train riders. And she’d walk into the train station, the same way she always did to greet her father from Adelaide. Only she wouldn’t be there to greet him. She’d be there to take a train herself. She’d walk up to my booth, with her elegant yet confident stride. She’d say, “One ticket to Adelaide, please.” And I’d type into the machine, and grab the ticket, and I’d hand it to her.
And if I was in love, I’d ask, “What brings you to Adelaide?”
And she’d frown, and she’d grab the handle of a suitcase I hadn’t seen before, and she’d say, “I’m moving in with my father.”
Now if I were in love, I’d have said, “Moving in with him? For how long?” because I would want to know when she’d be back.
And she’d say, with her eyebrows furrowed, “I don’t know. My mum got in some trouble, so I can’t live with her anymore. And my father, well, he’s the nearest family I have.” She’d look down at her lonely suitcase, and she’d think of all the friends she was about to lose. And then she’d remember who I was. “We have a photography class together, don’t we?” she’d say.
And if I were in love, I’d say, “Yes, we do. I’m–”
“Thomas.” She’d interrupt me. “I remember. Your pictures of that fairy wren were incredible. How’d you get it so close?”
And if I were in love, I would’ve said, “I-I had to use a really long lens.” I would’ve kicked myself for saying something so stupid. But then she’d laugh, and I would feel like I was on top of the world.
And she would’ve said, “Of course you did. They don’t like getting their picture taken. They're my favorite, though. The males look so pretty in their breeding plumage.”
If I were in love, I’d be baffled by her love of fairy wrens, and I’d tell her, “They’re my favorite too.” Because if she loved them, they would be.
If I were in love, I’d notice her starting to cry. And I’d ask, “What’s wrong?”
She’d say, “They aren’t near as common in Adelaide.” And she’d sniffle.
If I were in love, I’d have told her to stay. And she’d have asked how, and I would’ve told her I didn’t know. And she would’ve cried more, and I would’ve stepped out of the booth and held her. And I’d tell her how I felt. And she’d smile and say she felt the same. Or maybe she wouldn’t. But maybe she would.
If she loved me, maybe she wouldn't have stepped on that train, taking my dreams with her. Maybe she wouldn’t have moved so far away, or maybe she would’ve come back to see me. If she loved me, maybe I would have seen her again.
“Love” isn’t what I would’ve called what I had for Audrey. It may have felt like love, but maybe it wasn’t. Because if it was, it would hurt a lot more knowing that she’s gone. If it was love, I wouldn’t have lamented for weeks over a chance I never took. If it was love, I wouldn’t have stood there, pretending my heart wasn’t pounding out of my chest. I wouldn’t have held in the millions of things I wanted to say to her, like what my favorite bird was or why I hated working at the train station or where my favorite place in Sydney was or just how much I really did love her.
Sure, it wasn’t love. But maybe I wanted it to be.