Ian Breckon

The train leaves Paris after dark, pulling out of the Gare de Lyon and south through the suburbs, gathering speed across the flatlands of the Seine. In the dining car, alone at her table, Nina turns to the window and sips her dry gin soda. The night is filled with fleeting rain, and the reflections of the other tables in the dining car hang suspended within it, yellow and blurred by the water streaming across the glass. Now and again a station passes and Nina tries to read the nameboards in their little puddles of gaslight beneath the awnings, but the train is an express and moves too fast. This is the same train that she used to take years ago, on her trips to Paris with Amedeo.

There are a few people left in the dining car, lingering over late suppers, the duck terrine and the veal cutlets. All are men, and Nina watches them reflected in the window. One man seated across the aisle, neatly dressed with shining pomaded hair, lifts his wineglass every time Nina takes a drink, as if he hopes that he might catch her eye and smile at the coincidence, then perhaps ask to join her at her table. Perhaps he would be charming and a little suggestive, mentioning the hours that lie ahead, the difficulties of sleeping, the opportunities for discreet amusement in his compartment…