All the Rage by A. L Kennedy

be furious to make the word ring like a curse. Authentically injurious.
    For now, she whipped a glance at him, gave it some strength. Mark was aware that the tall bloke in retro corduroy, or just very misguided corduroy, had read their little exchange – Pauline’s threat, Mark’s obeisance – and was smiling in response.
    But you’re wrong, chum. My relationship is not the nightmare you assume. You have no reason to feel you are lucky and can be smug. You don’t understand.
    There was something about kissing her while she tasted of contempt – there was a depth in that, an intoxication. You had to be careful in these areas and he wouldn’t recommend it for someone who flagged under tension, but if you could stand it . . .
    Wasted on him, the corduroy man. Moron.
    Mark shifted in an intentionally obvious way to eye the moron’s female companion, give her some time. She was unimpressive.
    â€˜Mark.’
    Bite the tongue and don’t say ‘Yes, dear.’ It’s such a cliché.
    â€˜Yes, darling.’
    â€˜Go and find something out.’
    â€˜Of course. I’ll go and find something out.’
    And Mark did indeed step lively, as if he were seeking more up-to-date information and could be ordered about and relish it. The crowd was hungry for distraction and a theatrically craven husband drew attention. He could feel the pity and amusement lap towards him as he trotted on, a tide of nasty satisfaction.
    Stare if you want. Take a picture, I don’t mind. I still know what you don’t – that there are opportunities for a mature and fulfilled enjoyment in my situation.
    He switched through to the other platform, the one in shade. It was deserted and his body lifted, was stroked by being out of sight.
    I’ll give it ten minutes, have my own precious break.
    There was no reason to do more: at mysterious intervals a man came and, in a perversely quiet voice, told the crowd of would-be passengers that their train would arrive in twenty minutes. He had done this several times in the last three hours. Should Mark be able to locate him, the man would doubtless repeat the twenty-minute claim, because this was precise and therefore not frustrating and seemed to promise a not unreasonable wait.
    The electronic indicator board sometimes showed their train and sometimes others, none of which appeared. Mark had decided he’d take the rest of the day in soft focus and so wasn’t wearing his glasses. This meant the shiny, tiny letters and fictional times simply flared together into uncommunicative blocks. He preferred them like that.
    In his absence, Pauline could consult the board. She had her glasses.
    Doesn’t like them, because she’s decided they make her look old.
    They make her look like her mother, which isn’t old.
    It is much worse than old.
    And meanwhile they weren’t without the useless kind of trains, non-stopping anonymous trains: long, high blurs of weight and violence that gashed the air and ravaged past, leaving him breathless and tempted.
    Suicide as an alternative to marriage.
    Well, I wouldn’t put it that bluntly.
    No.
    But there is a tug as they roar on by, the illusion of longing.
    A voice from who knew where – it was a woman’s – would give them notice through the PA system before the tearing intrusion of each express, but nevertheless he couldn’t quite prepare enough. They made him feel undefended, almost naked.
    If you stand too near the edge you’ll be drawn off by sheer velocity and crushed. I read that somewhere.
    The trains were so plainly unsurvivable and disinterested. They were attractive. Marvellous.
    The impact of another troubled the fabric of everything briefly and he wished he’d been closer for it, over with Pauline. She wouldn’t have stood too near. She was, in fact, probably sitting as he’d left her with knees tight together and ankles tucked into one side as a lady