Two Hearts Hitched on a Train

Although I like to say we met on the train, truth is, we found each other on-line first.

Messaging foreplay ensued. Phone chats were flush with effortless repartee. We were mutually intrigued to delve deeper for romantic potential.

When he asked, “Do you like Chicago Blues?”

I replied, “Buddy Guy? Luther Allison? Yessir!”

And with that, we were bound for the nightclubs on South Wabash Avenue. He booked for two on Amtrak and shared the reservation password. He would board first in Minnesota. I would hop on in Wisconsin.

. . .

When I arrived at the station, I had no reservation number for the ticket agent behind the counter. I gave her my last name instead. She punched it in and peered at her screen. Then she turned. “Sorry, nothing under your name.”

I asked if there was a reservation under his name. She confirmed there was.

And then I remembered: there was a password. And the password was … c*cksucker.

It was a term uttered liberally on his favorite Western series, Deadwood. And now I was going to have to say it to the ticket agent.

A line was growing behind me. I leaned closer to the ticket window and shared sotto voce, “I’m sorry to have to say this but can you look under c*cksucker, please?”

She blinked at me. Once again, she typed on her keyboard. Shifting her eyes back to me, she coolly replied, “I’m sorry you said that, too! There’s no reservation under that name, either.”

So he made his reservation. But I would pay for my reservation. Not quite my expectation but not a dealbreaker, either. She reassured me that she would seat me right next to him.

When the train came chuffing in, I got on board. The conductor punched my ticket and directed me with a “Sit wherever you like, Ma’am”. So much for assigned seating!

I scanned the passengers in that first car. No sign of him. Moving on to the next car … and then the next one. Still nothing.

As I approached the lounge car, the train was undulating as it picked up speed. So I decided this was a good place to park and regroup before venturing further.

The door slid open and there he was, placing an order at the bar. He looked over, his eyes widening with recognition.

“There you are! What are you doing in coach? We’re back in first class!”

He handed me the two splits of champagne to carry while he reached down to grab my luggage. “This way, please!”

As I followed him, I said with a smile, “By the way, you owe me!” He threw back a quizzical look, but kept going.

After we settled into our private car, he poured drinks while I recounted the exchange in the station. He roared with laughter. “You actually said ‘c*cksucker’ to the ticket agent? It was a joke!”

The ticket snafu would be resolved the next day. For now, our connection was undeniably evident. Romance was in the air.

Three hours later, we arrived in Chicago. 24 hours later, we were in love.

. . .

We dated across state lines for two years, reuniting at either his train station or mine.

Then one day, he bought a one-way ticket and moved to live with me. That was 14 years ago. We’ve been together ever since.

And now, whenever I hear the faint whistle of the train as it rumbles through each evening, it never fails to bring a smile to my face. It’s one of our love songs.

—

This post was previously published on Hello, Love.

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