Rifling through other peoples blogs, sticky fingered, I happened on the image below from
Bruce Spear, and stuck, happy to be reminded of the recent weekend in Berlin. Although wandering round like a tourist, with my camera dangling from my wrist (as I
was a tourist) for some reason I did not take a picture of the ubiquitous patterned glass in the U-Bahn trains, although I wanted to. Thinking of the U-Bahns going over ground and the S-Bahns going underground, and trying not to think of Wombles. Think of journeys, fictions. The vanishing point of a railway platform.
Kicking at the floor with the thickened rubber at your toes. You would pace if you thought you could get away with it. I look at my feet too, between my knees, the metal grille chair pushing puckers into the backs of my thighs. Your train will come first, the signs say, in 6min, a plastic yellow glow against the black background. 9min for me. Dazed. I would have thought we should have something to say to each other. But then I thought what we did should have felt more, more of something. Intimate, yeah, that's the word. My head hangs and you don't lift it. The air pushes ahead of the train and we fumble for each others hands. Warm still, your fingers. You stand at the doorway as it slides past you shut. Make a "Call You" sign and then you slide away. If my train had come first you would have made me get on it. You are curving smaller, out of reach, into the dark. You are on the circle line. How long will I have to wait for you to come around again?
