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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