Newbiggin by the Sea Creative Writing Group

Why do I sit on this train when I hate
to travel? My brain unravels. The rain
spits down.
I frown at the man who shouts into his
phone; groan anew as he gives his
number out. Again. Want to contact him,
frighten him; say in a sultry voice: 'I know
where you are.' Watch him. Squirm. Turn
around to look. Read my book.
Beware the wrath of a single traveller
who needs some peace. I seethe; grit teeth
Let the rain spit.
Concentrate on book for awhile. Smile at
attendant trundling abundance of wares.
Tea will do. Stare at the sodden view: stir
the brew.
Another journey: sunny then; too hot.
A hand to hold. Not easy going back.