He sat in the lounge, in a state of charged emotion, looking around. Too fraught to cry. And scared at the lack of inhibition that this would bring.

Next to the door. It was the yellow paint that caught his eye, just inside the carrier back waiting for the next donation to the charity shop. An old car security lock, working, but too small to fit the new car. He moved.

Back in the seat, crooklock in hand. Some noise on the radio, but that only came though from another room, another world even, the world where things were different. There was no-one else in his world, not at this moment, the room was empty but for him, reflecting too much, and holding a yellow piece of steel.

And he swung.

At the exact moment that the bar came down on the top of his theigh, he was able to let out properly a cry of how he felt. This was what released the emotion. This was how he could get rid of the pain and frustration of the day, the week, the year.

And again.

And again.

And…

And when the tears were properly flowing, then, only then, was he able to stop. It was better than the old way. There were no scars. The bruises would heal, eventually but slowly, and that was what he needed.To see the effect, to bring emotion to the surface. He stood to get a drink, and the pain embraced his damaged legs.

“What can I do for you?” Ever the submissive. She hated herself for it, and yet it was who she was. Even worse: “is there a problem?”

Bob leant across to her. His brow was red. She tried to turn her mind away from his unwashed odor and avoided looking at the sweat stained underarms of his crumpled shirt. Only then did she notice that his breath wore the unmistakable air of a lunchtime session at the pub. His faced glowed from the warming aftermath of his beer.

“I’m sorry to have kept you.” He leered at a secretary through a crack in the door. “How’s Ian?”

She let out a gulp but was determined not to get upset over that bastard, and instead stared forwards.

“Oh. I’m sorry. I forgot. Whatabout.. Whatabout the children?”

“I don’t have any children, Mr Charleston.” Every time it was the same. Did the man turn off his brain before he spoke to her?

“Really? But I thought.. No matter. That wasn’t why I asked you in.”

It was only at the the third cry that he raised his eyes to look at the man. Dressed in what would once have been a resplendent evening suit, it would still take more than the current dirt and tears to hide the once proud elegance. And it showed. Even so, this wasn’t the reason for Jonte’s surprise, or why his feet felt nailed to the station concourse.

He was looking at himself.

From three years ago. And that night, the night that he had first met Em, and the night…

“Some tea, sir. I just want to get a cup of tea.”

Jonte put his hand into his pocket and pulled out two pound coins.

“Here.” He tried no drop the coins, to avoid touching the other man’s hand.

“Thank you sir. Bless you.” He started to walk away. “I’ll see you.”

Jonte felt a shiver run down his spine as he opened the door to the station and walked out into the car park.

Some coincidence, surely. But how many people would have had a suit like that one? It was the jacket that stood out: Jonte had been insistent, despite the expense, on the purchase of a vintage garment, adjusted to fit at additional expense, and decorated with a thin silver thread. Marion had always hated the idea of the decoration, but once it was finished even she admitted a liking to the suit. It was far more subtle than she’s anticipated, and she laughed, it gave Jonte a distinctive edge over the other penguins at the ball. Em had agreed.

And he was convinced, on seeing her leave her seat and signal to him to meet at the entrance to the train, that it was for one final “I love you” before the weekly departure.

No dice.

A comment on the state of the trains, wrapped in a vehermence bordering on the obsessive, after which the door shut leaving him alone on the platform. Picking up the bag containing their stash from the day, he walked the length of the platform to the station exit.

“Spare some change?”

Why not. Have it all. Have the fucking lot. Its only money, you probably need it more than I do, even if it is only to shoot up. Save you breaking into another house. But instead, like normal, he mumbled an apology about having no cash and kept his head focussed down as he tried to project the stress of the weekend onto the homeless.

“Please. Anything.”

This didn’t normally happen. The man was standing in front of him, blocking the exit. The station doors were open beneath the clock. 10.00 pm. It was still light. It was only this year that he had realised the extent to which he loved the summer. He shook his head, and tried to make his way out, and up to the nearest pub.

“For some tea.”

Right. Tea. Like he’d ever seen a tramp drinking tea. But the guy wasn’t going to move. Stood there like the living dead, it seemed as though the only way to get out of the station would be to offer some money. Something small. He fumbled in his pocket, trying to find twenty pence amongst the pound coins. Where were the staff when you needed them?