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It's almost three in the morning. The summer night air is warm, but comfortable. A gentle breeze stirs occasionally. Crickets drone steadily, and beneath that is the soft intermittent sighing of cars passing on the distant freeway. Moths flit fanatically against the grimy light bulbs over head. Other bulbs - street lights, house lights, security lights- form a constellation against the darkness of the far-off hills. A new noise rudely disturbs the stillness - asphalt and small stones crunching beneath heavy luggage wheels. He rounds a brick corner of the southbound platform. He's twenty five years old, six feet, dressed in jeans, an open plaid long-sleeve shirt, and a vintage Rolling Stones t-shirt underneath - all new, clean, and neat. There's a large pair of silver retro headphones around his collar. They're attached to the latest model iPhone in the breast pocket of his shirt. His hair is shaggy brown-blonde, wavy and parted on the left side. He's dragging a blue suitcase wearily behind him. He makes his way several paces down the platform to a bench; wire mesh coated in brown plastic of some kind. The noise of his progress stops. The crickets carry on, regardless. He glances northward, beyond the last illuminated tree branches into the darkness, and beyond. There's nothing. The train is not due for another forty-five minutes. He sits, and takes in the night. At the south end of the station a fox emerges. It looks around, sees him - looks straight at him, then trots across the tracks, and disappears into the bushes on the other side, leaving him again in solitude. He mounts his headphones over his ears, pulls the iPhone from his pocket, and selects Explosions in the Sky. Intricate dual guitar arpeggios twinkle and chime together reverberating into wide-open Texas spaces so far from the Clinton City train depot where he sits and waits now. Home. He reaches inside of the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a pack of American Spirit cigarettes. He takes one, leaving only four. From the opposite pocket he produces a disposable Bic lighter. A flash, a flame, and the hot glow of burning tobacco leaves as he takes a long drag. He contemplates the dancing tendrils of smoke. Explosions in the Sky are building towards a crescendo between his ears, distortion peddles stomped, eruption, euphoric catharsis, dulled slightly by familiarity and expectations. It will never be as great as the first time. Still pretty good, though. He closes his eyes, trying to fully experience the isvecbahis majesty of the squalling feedback and crashing cymbals, hoping to relive that sense of discovery and uplift. All he discovers is what his Brazillian grandmother would call 'saudade'- a nostalgia for the halcyon days of his adolescence that he doubts ever really existed as he remembers them. When he opens his eyes, he finds he is no longer alone. A woman has joined him on the opposite platform across the tracks. He hasn't heard her over the music. Her hair is golden-blonde and curly. She wears wire-framed glasses with oval lenses. Her dress is a simple floral pattern. He thinks they're purple lilies, but he's no flower expert. They droop as if in the process of swooning against a plain white background. There are four buttons on the front. The top two are undone, showing a modest amount of cleavage. He watches her as she glances up and down the empty platform. She makes her way towards a bench just like his, mirrored directly across from him. A small black suitcase trundles along behind her, wobbling and threatening to overturn as it bounces over small pebbles in her path. She's older, he judges, maybe in her thirties. Still in great shape, though, from the look of her, he thinks passingly. Nice round ass, good-sized breasts. What really catches his eye, however, are her boots. They're brown leather western style boots that come half-way up to her knees, so common back home, so uncommon up here in Clinton City. They seem like real quality boots with intricate stitching and tapered toes. He feels an instant soft-spot for this woman he's only laid eyes on just this moment. She looks in his direction. He becomes aware that he's been staring. He looks away Northward again, as if checking for the approach of a train that is still not due for another thirty-five minutes. Self-consciously, he straightens up from his slouching position. He takes another drag on his cigarette before allowing himself a quick glance back in her direction. She's staring off southward. He flicks the butt of his cigarette. It sails like a comet in an arc, sparks trailing out behind it. The sudden motion and light catch her eye. She watches as it lands in the stones between the two rails with a small spray of sparks. It smolders there for a minute longer. She looks at him. He looks away, fidgeting with his phone. He checks his e-mail, Facebook, Twitter. But of course no one is posting anything at this hour. She reaches into isveçbahis giriş her purse, rummaging, until she finds her lipstick. He watches from the corner of his eye as she applies the pink tube to her bottom lip, then the top. The motion seems slow, sensuous. Her lips are full, soft, luscious. She purses them a couple of times. He wonders what it would be like to feel them against his own lips. She glances again in his direction. He focuses on his phone, suddenly deciding he's had enough Explosions in the Sky for tonight. After searching for a couple of minutes, he settles on something more laid-back: Pavement with their lo-fi ramshackle grooves. Malkmus is doing his stoned-country thing. It suits his present mood just fine, and makes him feel like everything's alright. His head begins to nod in time with music. When he looks at her again, she's watching him. Embarrassed, he gives her a sheepish smile. Her smile is uncertain, almost calling him a 'weirdo.' Maybe he is a weirdo, and now he's blown it. Not that there was really an 'it' to blow. After all, they're just two strangers waiting for their trains. So what if she thinks he's weird for actually enjoying music? He stops bobbing his head. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and stares at the ground as if in deep contemplation. After a few minutes, he stands. He stretches, and walks to the edge of the platform. He leans over and looks Northward. There's still nothing. Nothing southward either. Leisurely, he strolls a little way down the platform. He's trying to play it cool, hoping she'll see how unbothered he is. He turns around. She doesn't seem to be paying him any attention. He yawns loudly and stretches his arms over his head. Still no notice. Fine. He walks back slowly, taking her figure fully into view. Her long slender legs are crossed, one boot dangling. He decides, she really is quite attractive for an older lady. And really, at most, she can't be more than seven or eight years older than him. Probably less. That's not really so old. He sits, and checks his watch again. Still another twenty-nine minutes. He leans back, resting his arms on the back of the bench. She reaches up, moving the fabric of her dress slightly aside to gently scratch an itch on her left breast - maybe a bug. He can see the slightest hint of a bra. It's pink and lacy. She looks up and notices him noticing her. 'Shit!' he thinks. 'Shit! Shit! Shit!' Embarrassed, he looks away for a minute. When he looks isveçbahis yeni giriş back again, she's still watching him. She doesn't seem angry. Rather she gives him a forgiving smile that all but says, 'Boys will be boys.' He returns her smile, sheepishly. She reaches again into her purse and produces a paperback novel. He can't make out the title or author from here, but the cover features the image of a bare-chested muscular guy with long dark hair looking deep into the eyes of a red head with luxuriously flowing hair. The shoulder of the woman's blouse has fallen down her arm exposing quite a bit of her ample chest, stopping just short of the nipple. Her neck is long and shapely The man grasps the back of her head, tilting it upward towards him. They're pictured at sunset, with sailing ships in the distant background. After a couple of minutes reading, her hand moves to her chest again. Another itch? No. This time it stays there, limply resting against her breast. She takes it away to turn the page, and then returns it to the spot above her heart. Slowly, subtly, her fingers begin to press and massage the fleshy mound. He watches her, spellbound now, as she rubs her breast. The movement of her hand becomes less subtle. Her fingers begin to draw slow circles around her nipple, and then slide across her chest. Gradually, she begins to slouch in her seat. Her legs uncross. He can briefly see straight up her dress, and catches a glimpse of pink panties- same colour as her bra. Then her legs press together again, both boots on the ground. He's becoming aroused. There's a definite stiffening in his jeans now. He looks up and down the platform. They're still alone. Amazingly, she undoes another button on the dress. Her eyes never leave the page. Her hand now slips inside the front of her dress. She continues to slouch, as if slowly melting off of the bench. The hem of her dress is riding up her thighs as her ass nears the edge of the seat. Her skin looks amazingly smooth and soft. Soon those pink panties are going to come into view again. He can't look away. He's become quite hard now, his cock straining against his jeans. His right hand goes to his lap and gently strokes the outlined length of it through the blue fabric. It's nearly involuntary. He can't help himself. She looks up and sees him staring lustfully at her. She places the novel down on the bench, parted in the middle. He looks back with a facial expression that pleads with her to continue. Instead, she suddenly stands up and walks away. She's left her book and her luggage behind. Shit. He can't help feeling rejected. He shouldn't have stared. He should have just played it cooler. Instead, he creeped her out, and now she's gone.