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The Last Train Home by Richard Holmes
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Covent Garden, 12:03am A couple stagger on the tube at midnight. Her perfume scent comes first, the smell of alcohol quickly follows. He sits by the window, folds his arms and sulks. She sits opposite, wiping away a mascara tear. The Big Mac Meal in her hand is not for sharing. “Don’t you dare even talk to me,” she snaps. “And don’t think you’re having any of this, either.” Meanwhile, drunken friends and lovers stumble onboard, arms slung around necks, tired heads resting on shoulders. She bites into her burger as the train leaves the platform, her mood as black as the bowels of the city. Piccadilly Circus, 12:06am A group of teenagers spill onto the train, laughing into their hands. He opens his mouth to speak, attempting to bridge the divide. She shoots him down with bloodshot eyes and a drunken threat. He slumps back into his chair, drumming the table, cursing ten pints too many. His brain stalls, all hope of articulating heartfelt affection abandoned. In a nearby seat, the man in the Saville Row suit smiles at the girl in the expensive dress. Knightsbridge, 12:12am The train rattles into the station. Sickly beige fluorescent lights sting her eyes. She wonders why he always does this when he’s drunk. It used to be part of the attraction, now his bravado has started to wear. Behind her, a middle-aged couple sit huddled together by the window, holding hands while they sleep. She sneaks a sideways glance at him and remembers something that makes her smile. That one for the road Mojito was a mistake. It clings to her taste buds and reminds her of a hundred hangovers. She recalls her careless words and the anger begins to fade. Hammersmith, 12:23am He rubs a hand through his matted hair. In the reflection of the finger-smeared window he sees an absent-faced imposter staring back. Black pupils swim in vodka filled eyes. The voice in the back of his head plays You’re an idiot on auto-loop. Lately, his drunken brain has found it to be something of a favourite. He looks up at from her across the table and catches her eye. She turns away, pretends she wasn’t looking. Her strawberry milkshake sits between them, untouched. As she fixes her gaze into the blackness of the tunnel he has a thought. Ealing Common, 12:31am An old man with a carrier bag stumbles off, a woman and her toddler climb on. Bleeping doors clank shut. He pushes a folded napkin towards her. She eyes him with suspicion as she begins to read the message, smudged in the handwriting of a drunkard. The girl with the mascara tears shakes her head, biting down on her ruby-red lip. Finally, she looks up, long enough for him to see something close to forgiveness. He reaches across the coffee-stained table and takes her hand. “Alright, Casanova,” she sighs. “Have a chip.” |
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First Place: Her Second Place: One Last Call |
