-2.45 am-

He said his name was Gary and that he comes here most nights.

We lock eyes for a moment. Then I step into a cubicle. He is leaning against the door. Smoking a cigarette like it is an oxygen mask. He gives a suggestion of a smile. Just a suggestion. As if he might be remembering a joke someone had recently told him. Last night’s lover.

It’s this nonchalance that I find appealing. Those dark eyes hint that he might snap at any moment. Pull out a rifle and start picking off random commuters. An old lady with a shopping trolley. A lonely shift worker. A homeless man with a collection of tattered blankets and brown paper bags. He would leave each of them convulsing on the station floor. Little crumpled up lumps of people, shivering slightly. Him towering over them, with that half-smile.

I put one hand in his back pocket and take the other to his belt buckle. My mouth is dry. Tobacco, salt and whiskey. He breathes hot rough words into my ear.

Turn around.

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