There is a young couple who I see every morning waiting on the train station platform at the same time that I am doing my daily commute. And I don’t like them.
I have never spoken to them; never made eye contact with them; cannot recall ever having heard either of them speak. But I don’t like them.
They are not an obviously annoying couple; they aren’t loud or offensive; neither obstructive nor trying to make an impression. There is nothing about them which would justify strong feelings of antipathy. But I don’t like them.
They always stand in the same spot on the platform, and they wear similarly-branded clothes, and they hold each other’s hands. And I don’t like them.
Their youth, their hand-holding, their matching outfits: it is as though they have built an impregnable carapace around themselves against the outside world. And I don’t like them.
In my mind, I have constructed an entire fictional history of their life together: I have imagined how they behave at home; I have pictured the way they speak to one another; I have visualised them cooking meals together, wearing matching outfits, holding hands. And I don’t like it.
Which is probably just as well, because I am sure if they were ever asked they would say that they didn’t like me.
© Simon Turner-Tree
Simon Turner-Tree tries to remain calm. Deep breaths.
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