He Told You Where This Was Going and You Packed for Somewhere Else

He told you fairly early that he was not looking for anything particularly serious.

He did not say it harshly or while disappearing through a hedge. He simply said it, then carried on being exactly the sort of man who might say such a thing.

You, meanwhile, heard a slightly more hopeful version. Not serious now, maybe. Not serious until he knows me properly. Or not serious in the same way one announces that one is absolutely not ordering dessert and then notices the chocolate cake passing by.

And this is how, several months later, you can find yourself staring at a man who has been wonderfully consistent and wondering when, exactly, he is going to become the man who wants the same things you do.

From a little distance, the whole thing begins to resemble boarding a beautiful train whose destination has been written quite clearly above the platform.

The destination is right there. You read it, take it in and then—somehow—board with luggage packed for somewhere entirely different.

The Destination Board Was Quite Clear

The train pulls away beautifully, and for a while, who cares where it is going? The journey itself is lovely. He is charming, you laugh, there are dinners and messages and long evenings, and even the view outside the window seems to have joined in.

Then the conductor comes through.

Tickets, please.

You show him yours and mention, almost casually, that you are rather hoping to end up somewhere warm, committed and possibly involving a shared set of keys.

The conductor studies the ticket, then looks at you with the faint expression of a man being asked whether the railway might reconsider itself.

That is not where this train is going.

Hmm.

Still, it is early. Routes bend. Things happen. Who knows? Somewhere beyond those hills, the entire railway may become more romantic.

So you settle back into your seat.

A few stations pass, and the man beside you keeps behaving very much like the man who boarded. The future rarely comes up, he slips quite happily back into his own life, and the relationship appears in no particular hurry to become anything more.

Meanwhile, you have begun studying the map with growing interest.

Surely after this mountain, the train turns south.

It does not.

Perhaps Another Carriage Is Going Somewhere Better

This is where things become rather inventive.

Maybe you have expected too much. Maybe the relationship simply needs more time, less pressure, better weather or one particularly successful weekend away that will somehow rearrange the railway.

So you move to another carriage.

Same train.

The dining car is charming. There are lovely tablecloths, excellent wine and one of those evenings that makes almost anything seem possible. You return to your seat feeling considerably more hopeful, glance out of the window and discover that the scenery remains stubbornly familiar.

This is where the whole thing becomes rather exquisite, because the train itself has done almost nothing mysterious. There has been no secret switch of tracks in the night, no freshly painted destination board, no map quietly hidden beneath a napkin.

It is simply going where it said it was going.

You are the one peering through the window wondering whether the sea might appear if everybody remains optimistic.

The Train Continues With Admirable Confidence

And while you are waiting for the sea, the train keeps moving. Another station appears, and naturally, so does another little burst of hope.

At one station, there is a serious conversation, a great deal of warmth and maybe one particularly lovely kiss afterward—the sort that can make the whole journey look suddenly full of possibility.

Very promising.

Unfortunately, a lovely kiss appears to have limited influence over railway timetables. The train leaves the station and continues in exactly the same direction. One begins to admire the train’s sense of purpose.

The imaginary man is marvelous, naturally. He communicates beautifully, enjoys making plans and suddenly wants exactly what you want, as though all he really needed was somebody to point out how delightful this would be.

Unfortunately, he is not currently on the train.

The actual man is.

And he is sitting three seats away, behaving very much like himself.

Pull back far enough and the whole journey starts looking almost comically straightforward. The train announced its destination, you climbed aboard, and then spent half the journey hoping the scenery would eventually change.

Which brings us, rather unexpectedly, back to that old apple-tree saying. An apple tree cannot give you pears.

Fair enough.

But the railway may have made the point rather more elegantly.

The destination was written above the platform in enormous letters.

Somehow, you packed for somewhere else.