We walked to the train and I waited with him on the platform, our fingers looped together, his guitar heavy on his side.
“I don’t know if you were ever loved properly,” he told me.
“I don’t think you have any idea.”
“If you’re ever in Brooklyn, I can.”
The train came pounding down the track, gusting wind and sending my hair askew, blowing all over and I turned away from it and he turned into it, into me, leaning into me like he leaned on my vowels and grazing my lips with his, just barely, just lightly touching his into my bottom lip, a fine row of teeth just maybe smoothing against my soft lip, and his hands dug into my wild hair as the wind and his will pushed us together into a violent, hurricane of a near-kiss, all breath, all low pressure system, vortex, magnets.
The train ripped away, the cold came crashing down on me and he was gone.