The train of my heart

The time is so beautiful. However, the time always end for me such as white chalk between the fingers of time and a blackboard in front of. How it is called Einstein “Time is relative”. It is relative for me of you. However, love conquers all in whatever instance of time. You know that. Well, this story begin with love, or I do not know. Alternatively, maybe starts with a rag in the hands of space.

Ten minutes late in a small train station in a particularly province in Italy, an unknown irregular square nailed on an ordinary train car. Not so ordinary I think. Ten minutes, the time to prepare a delicious tea; ten minutes, the time to decide whether to prepare it for themselves alone or invite a friend and call to her phone number. Ten minutes is so perfect for that.

The chalk and duster to write for erase, the time and space to live for forget.
For one of the four vertices of the square there is a girl in her twenties with an art book in his hands, brown eyes peering restless the static nature of the outside landscape. I think she was a pretty painter or a visual artist.  She was on hold. Immediately I say in my mind “Hold on pretty lady hold one for me”. 

The left foot is apparently motionless such as the right moves at the pace of a non-tuned music. The beats of this music irregularly on the dull gray floor and marks the time giving sound shape to space.
The purple sweater slips spiteful on the wrist, he tries to hide the clock, the seconds and the minutes he avoids his gaze impatiently.

His red hair moves such as air and the smell of his body runs too. Nevertheless, not it all is perfect. You do not here. You be in the space with my great imagination.

The train’s station is so big. I see many details.

Alicia is in the point A of the square. In the point B are two fiveteen year olds, girls in low-rise jeans and T-shirt over his navel, complain loudly between the beep of a sms sent and received one, to keep them together earphones with a CD player that share. Leonela and Bettiana, paragraph B of the square.

In the point C is a young mother and her four-year-old son. They are so beautiful in this parade. Children are so especial.  In the section D: an elderly gentleman who sticks his head out the window muttering on the travel conditions, and before him a woman in her thirties, dressed elegantly, a pen and a worn-out notebook in his hands.

They are four vertices of a square with sides invisible. The invisibles sides of the destiny.

Alicia closes the book, two fingers holding the sign, waiting to be convinced to put it in the bag. I see the book. I think it name is “Love tarantella”. I do not read that book yet.

Suddenly you hear croaking a voice from a speaker; the sound is slightly deformed but comforting: “The train to Verona is departing from the second track.” A brief pause.
“The train to Riona of 14:17 hours arrives and departs from the first track.”

Alicia observes the people on the dock looking back in the direction of the oncoming train.

At last, there can share. You hear a whistle while the landscape until that moment motionless slowly start walking, driving, and then the race.

The two sixteen year olds off the CD player and start to get ready to go down at the next station. They will agree to see each other a few hours later, to study together, for chatting with friends and continue to close the rest of the world outside the door of their imagination.

The old man sits down is grumbling, he must have been about seventy years and a little hair he has left, he thinks Alicia with a touch of irony, they seem to have done more to a strange twist of fate that for solidarity. Tattiana, the young woman in front of him, would not grant excessive importance: fixed notebook and fiddles with his pen between his fingers.
The contrast between the impeccability of the blue suit and the peculiarities of the notebook as an accessory might intrigue a careful observer, but the fingers of Alicia are still among the pages of the book as he watches the other three points of the square without particularly interested.

While waiting obliged in the station, the little Mario gave vent to impatience of all standing up and letting fall continuously on the seat; Now that the train has resumed its slow march the little one is a volcano of questions:

“Mom, because the trees do not follow us? The are perhaps unpleasant? “
“No, Mario, the trees are still, we seem to move,” he said the good-natured.
“Mommy, why the grandmother is not coming with us?”
“Because the grandmother lives in Riona, but you’ll see that will see us very soon.”
“Mom…”

The train begins to slow down; to the station, station is a few hundred meters. The compartment door opens, two boys crossing the wagon. Alicia turns, the two they turn sixteen, the young mother, Mario and Mr. Giulio look back, and a look launched sideways, mixed superficial curiosity to indifference and inconsistency. Only the movement does not distract Rosa, his eyes are fixing on the notebook and the mind is engaged in useless conversations between thoughts.

Alicia looks like an intelligent woman. I hope that her heart would be mine. It was love at the first look.

The boys go on to the next car. The child pours again her curiosity in the questions and Mr. Julius gets him to come down.

The square has been broken. Alicia closes the book and puts it in the bag, the next stop is his finally. She smiles as she imagines the relentless autumn of life to call the call the last stubborn veterans on Mr. Giulio head, and serene once to the window. Her brown eyes meet two blacks’ eyes passing, swift and silent, at that time.

Alicia unwittingly finds himself to smile to a stranger, but quickly looks away annoyed: that smile was not directed at anyone.

The train starts and protected space that moves and separates, leaving Alicia to recapture from that stranger’s profile, it seems to recognize him in one of the boy’s glimpsed moments before. He just needs to make sure to watch it without noticed.

Does not know why his eyes are focus on that figure, a point by now blurred contours and you will not even ask until the station is far away and the next is more forthcoming. Nothing major, no reason to remember a stupid name for a stupid station. Patriano.

Alicia drops; the wagon is now almost emptied.

The train starts.

Two stops and is the last stop: the Serra station. The train is emptied of everything and already fills up, ready to begin a new journey.

Rosa is home to an end. In just a few minutes and came back. The elegant suit gives way to an anonymous suit. Rosa let sink into the couch and turn on the television. It has a tub of ice cream in her lap and a spoon to dip into the cold chocolate mixture until creamy; in the other hand the remote control, constant companion.

Even a small portion of ice cream to get rid of her lips and then Rosa decides to put the lid back to the pan and stand up. Storing ice cream in the freezer and throwing the spoon in the sink.

It plunges back down on the couch, bored. He picks up the remote and change the channel.
 
Nothing, nothing, nothing. Angry off the TV and stares at a black screen.

He shuns the sofa and finds himself on the balcony.

It is a beautiful day, there is no sun, it is not raining and there are only many gray clouds that make bright surroundings.

An unexpected movement catches his attention: in the garden beyond the dirt road Berti spouses are bowed, intent on weeding. Rosa observes them indifferent.

Mrs. Berti alighting straightens the back, hands on hips and a slight grimace of pain crosses her face wrinkled with age. Rosa imagines her short white curls falling over his forehead beaded with sweat delicate.

The husband sits up in turn and pass a handkerchief over his forehead. Rosa sees him turning to his wife, he sees his profile and a twinge of envy the catches off guard.
He puts a hand on her arm and says something. She shakes her head without conviction.
Then a smile formed on his lips, imagine Rosa, and tells him that soon would go to prepare tea for both.

Mrs. Berti bursts out laughing. Rosa was not expecting it and the thick of envy becomes more acute. Is he envious of those two old ?, he asks incredulously. She? Young, with a life of promise before? “Promises …”

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