Midnight Train

The 11:47 to Montreal was never on time. Clara had learned this over six months of weekly trips, standing on the same platform, watching the same clock tick past midnight.

Tonight, there was a man on the bench. He wore a coat too heavy for September and held a book he wasn't reading.

"It's always late," she said, more to the empty air than to him.

He looked up. In the harsh station light, his eyes were the color of old pennies. "Everything worth waiting for usually is."

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat.

Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum.

At vero eos et accusamus et iusto odio dignissimos ducimus qui blanditiis praesentium voluptatum deleniti atque corrupti quos dolores et quas molestias excepturi sint occaecati.

They talked until the train arrived at 12:23. They talked through the dark countryside, past sleeping towns and empty stations. When the sun rose over the St. Lawrence, Clara realized she had told this stranger more than she had told anyone in years.

"Will you take this train again next week?" he asked as they pulled into Montreal.

She smiled. "Everything worth waiting for usually is."