Their first train was streamlined and fast. Once a marvel of engineering, it now lay dormant beneath the weight of a winter storm, its sleek form muted by snow. Inside the station, an American couple waited for the snow to relent, their relationship as stalled as the machine outside. They sat together, silent, with the murmur of fellow travelers thick around them. In the background, Edith Piaf's Sous le ciel de Paris was playing in a loop, its melancholy melody drifting over a scratchy PA system. The woman fixated on her half-empty glass of wine, her expression distant, as if lost in thought—or perhaps in resignation—while the man stared at their frozen train, eavesdropping on nearby couples, their words washing over him, seemingly unaffected by the delay.
Growing angrier with each passing minute, the man abruptly stood and approached the ticket counter where an unshaven, gruff agent was savoring a cigarette and reading a worn crumpled newspaper.
"I thought you announced our train would be leaving shortly," the man snapped. "That was three hours ago!"
The agent shrugged. "Once this snow clears, you will be on your way, Monsieur."
The man shook his head. "Look, I need to be in Toulon by 8:00 for a State Department meeting," he insisted. "This is unacceptable."
Calmly, the agent crushed his cigarette, barely glancing up. "Well, Monsieur, we do have another train, a mail train, which can get you to Toulon. But... it is slow," the agent said.
"How slow?" the man pursued.
The agent whistled attempting to convert the train's metrics. "Only ninety miles per hour," he answered.
The man let out a nervous laugh. "In the States, we'd call that a fast train." He checked his watch, then made a decision. "I'll take two tickets, and a sleeping compartment, if one's available."
The agent smirked. "A private berth can be arranged," he said, his eyes flicking over to the woman.
The man glared at the agent. "For Pete's sake, she's my wife," he admonished.
The agent raised an eyebrow but said nothing more.
The mail train idled in the shadows of a forgotten platform, unnoticed and empty. It had become a refuge for lost souls fleeing Paris. Snow stacked on its southbound tracks as the wind howled through the station's rafters, but inside the train there was warmth—and escape.
When the couple boarded, a postal sorter led them through a narrow corridor to their compartment. The dimly lit space was no larger than a walk-in closet, with a cramped bathroom tucked in the corner. The man tipped the worker, then kissed his wife's cheek. "Isn't this romantic?" he asked. "We have this train all to ourselves." The woman offered a faint, practiced smile, and set her vanity bag on the table, but said nothing.
Once outside the city, the train was cutting through a snow-draped landscape as the unrelenting snow fell. Vineyards and fields stretched endlessly, dotted with bleached farmhouses illuminated by halogen lights. The bright lights reflected off snowflakes and lit the world beyond the window with an otherworldly glow. The couple sat side by side, mesmerized, speechless, watching the illuminated countryside pass by.
"This storm… it's frightening but also exhilarating, don't you think?" the man said, breaking the silence.
"Yes. Both, I suppose," the woman replied, her tone flat.
"What's wrong?" the man asked, his expression tightening.
The woman gazed at the horizon. "It's just that we left home so suddenly. I keep wondering what the children think of us—of you needing me as a business companion after years of traveling by yourself."
"They're fine with it," the man said. "They're at the university, living their own lives as we hoped. We did our part. Now it's our time." He hesitated. "I know this trip wasn't planned. I was insensitive springing it on you. I'm sorry."
The woman again said nothing. Her silence pressed down on him.
"You look beautiful tonight," he continued, stammering, searching for words to engage her.
"Thank you," she said distantly.
"I love you," he added, reaching for her hand.
Her fingers tensed. "You used to say that a lot. It's nice to hear it again."
"I should've said it more," he admitted. "I let us drift apart for years. That's why I wanted this—to start fresh and make new memories. A honeymoon we never had."
Her gaze shifted to him, her expression unreadable. "Really? You needed me with you? Or is it because you had a meeting in Toulon and didn't want to be alone? Or... your guilt?"
The man faltered and attempted to deflect the question. "I can't deny it. Yes, I do feel guilty. And yes, there's an important meeting I must attend. But it's more than that. I wanted to show you—"
"Show me what?" she interrupted. "That you still care? That you're willing to pretend everything's fine now that the children are gone?"
"They're not gone, just grown," he corrected.
"Don't twist my words," she snapped, clutching the pearls dangling at her neck. "I've managed quite well without you these last few years while you were off galivanting around on supposed business trips. I've changed."
"I know you have," he said. "I see that."
"I'm not the naïve girl you married," she continued. "And I'm not some helpless princess waiting for her knight on the sidelines. If that's what you're looking for, you won't find it here."
He leaned back, overcome and upset. "You're the one who built walls between us," he mumbled.
"If you cared enough, you would have climbed them," she shot back. "But you never tried. Not until now, when it's convenient on this so-called honeymoon." She paused. "And what about her? How does she figure into this newfound sense of fidelity of yours?"
The man closed his eyes. "She was a mistake. One I'll regret forever. I'm sorry. I can't say that enough for you. It's over."
"Do you even hear yourself?" she asked. "You think mere words can erase what you've done?"
He sighed. "I know I failed you, and I'm sorry. I love you. I just want—" He hesitated. "I want to make love to you tonight, here, now. To prove we still belong together."
She scoffed. "No."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want to," she replied. "And because people can see us." She gestured to the window and their snow-blurred portal to the outside world.
"There's no one out there," he argued. "We can turn off the light."
She shook her head. "You can't fix our problems with grand gestures or hollow promises. Maybe tomorrow, after your important meeting," she mocked.
Without another word, the woman unpacked her bag and shimmied into a nightgown. She checked her reflection, dimly, in a mirror, and studied her face and the faint creases that bore years of painful memories. Was her husband lying again or was he sincere? she wondered. Inevitably, she sighed and climbed into bed, her back facing him, knowing that sleep, like life's certainty, would not come easily that night.
Outside, the snow-covered fields blurred into gray under distant lights. The man watched iced-over trees drift past, each one a lone sentinel against the cold. He turned to his wife, now a shadow beneath a blanket, and wondered if she would ever forgive him—or vanish like the trees receding into darkness.
Quietly, he shed his clothes and climbed into bed. He kissed the back of his wife's neck, feeling her warmth, and rolled over to face the window. As the outside world faded, he felt her stir, turn, and grope for his hand. Her touch was light, but her hand remained, small and still against his, as the train continued onward through the winter storm.
