It was only as the train pulled away, and his journey home had begun that Colin could properly reflect: when married men forget about Valentine’s Day, it’s difficult to recover.

In Colin’s defence, his wife, Angela, had said nothing to him at breakfast that morning. She had been distant and her conversation curt. But that wasn't unusual.

He’d only realised his forgetfulness when he arrived at the office, where a courier and a receptionist were wrestling over two bouquets and six pink helium balloons. Colin had rushed back out to buy a card from a corner shop, and that had made him late for a crucial meeting. The card was still in his suit jacket, unwritten. He’d found a moment to order flowers at lunchtime – to be told they wouldn’t arrive today. He’d called Angela’s favourite restaurant: not a table to be had. He hadn’t been able to leave work until seven – god knows when he’d get home. And Angela had ignored his texts all day.

He’d run to the station and leapt onto this train just as the doors squeaked shut. That, he thought, was the first thing that had gone his way all day.

The train was almost full, but a couple of carriages down he squeezed into a window seat. Two people sat across from him: an older man in the aisle seat, while directly in front, a young woman in a stunning, red dress was reading a book.

The guard’s whistle blew and the train moved off. Colin checked his watch and it was at this point he reflected on the awfulness of his day and he sat forward, willing the train on. Maybe Angela wouldn’t be so angry once he’d explained. Who was he kidding? Her tempers could be furious and had become more frequent in their two years of marriage. At least once a week she accused him of not caring, of having an affair, or of not showing enough affection. It could bubble on for days.

The train window had steamed up; Colin cleared a peephole with his fist. It was already dusk and he could only see the somber outlines of the suburban houses they were passing. In the evening gloom, the window was more functional as a mirror, reflecting the bright interior of his own carriage. Through it, Colin saw the older man fold his newspaper and settle back. Colin switched his attention to the woman. Her dark hair was arranged in a bob, she had a pert nose, and he was transfixed by the way her dress accentuated her figure. He noticed the audacity of its hemline – only just below her thigh. He watched as she lifted her head from her book and, unless he was mistaken, started looking at him.

He watched her reflection for a few seconds then turned to look at her directly. Still, she looked at him curiously, raising an eyebrow that seemed to demand an answer. Flattered by her attention, Colin reddened. Maybe she’d had a couple of drinks; she surely wouldn’t be interested in him otherwise.

The woman leaned forward and placed her hand on his knee. She had to nearly shout to be heard above the hubbub of the busy carriage.

“Stockport,” she said.

The word stalled Colin. It reverberated inside him. He swallowed. Stockport. The town where he’d spent every unfashionable minute of his childhood. Stockport, the place he’d raced from when he left school to come to London to – to do what? To find a successful job – and end up in one that barely covered his mortgage? To find love – and marry a woman who belittled him at every turn?

But how could this beautiful woman know about Stockport? Know that word would leave him transfixed? She was still looking evenly at him, aware he was floundering, and he could not stop blushing.

There was something familiar about her, but he couldn’t pinpoint what. She had spoken with a Stockport accent, but he couldn’t remember knowing anyone like her. He was on the point of admitting that he often struggled with names and faces; he put his finger to his lips to give the impression that he was on the cusp of recognising her if she could give him a clue.

But the intensity of the woman’s gaze began to stir something in him. Recognition emerged slowly from a fog. It was – it was –

Jesus. Could it be Amanda, that girl from next door? 

Colin struggled to hide the disbelief that had to be evident in his expression. Little Amanda: his next-door neighbour the whole time he was growing up. She was a couple of years younger, but, like him, an only child and, as there were few other children on their estate, there had been a kinship between them. Sometimes, as summer evenings died, they’d climb out of their respective bedroom windows onto the narrow felt roof that linked their terraced houses, and throw stones into their back gardens. Colin had been at ease with Amanda because it was a platonic friendship. Amanda, buck-toothed and guileless, was a listener who navigated the flow of friendships in and out of his life with what seemed like indifference, until, one Valentine’s Day morning, Colin had watched with horror as she pushed a pink envelope through his letterbox. A card.

Had he spoken to her since? Colin thought not, but he couldn’t keep at bay a fleeting recollection that she had tried to take his hand one day afterward, and he’d run away and called her a name. Jesus.

And now the same Amanda – and there was now no doubt that it was her – was here, metamorphosed into a stunning and sophisticated woman. Her teeth had been fixed, but had those long, tanned legs always been there? Those deep brown eyes? Colin felt his own Valentine's card in his jacket pocket; its edge pressing against his nipple like a dagger.

Amanda clearly remembered him. Should he say something now, to explain himself? But what could he say?

Once Amanda realised he’d made the connection, she looked away, across the carriage into the distance, as if she was contemplating. It gave Colin the chance to study her. He ran his eye over the pattern of her dress, before noticing that, perhaps as a result of the train’s movement, her knees had drifted apart. He had only a moment to take this in, conscious he should not be caught staring. But excitement washed down his spine. It was a gorgeous view. He stole another glance to ascertain if this really was true.

And there was no doubt, Amanda was, very slowly, opening her legs in front of him.

He looked away for the longest minute of his life, then back. Now she had edged forward in her seat, which had made her dress ride further up.

His glances continued and he needed to adjust himself to control his arousal. It was like watching a clock being adjusted: one minute her legs were at the twenty-five to five position, then at twenty-to-four. Now they were splayed indolently, so brazenly he could see the pale aqua of her panties. He looked furtively around. No one else had noticed; this show was solely in his honour. And then something snapped in his excited body. He gave in: if he was in the front row, why shouldn’t he watch? He stared openly at her legs, burnished to a shine by the overhead light. He stared as her panties came into view. He stared at her knees, at the shadows formed by her dress, at the smoothness of her skin.

Amanda snapped her legs shut. She stood and, placing her book on her seat, lifted her handbag and moved to the aisle. After taking a few steps down the carriage, she stopped for a long moment. Then she looked over her shoulder at him.

Colin lost no time: he left his seat and followed Amanda as she headed towards the toilet cubicle at the end of the carriage. At the cubicle door, she hesitated again before entering. Colin squeezed in behind her. It was cramped and smelled of stale urine and there was little room to move. It felt unbelievable that their reunion should happen like this. Amanda kept her back to Colin, but as soon as he had closed the door behind him she ran her hands up the outside of her thighs until they caught the hem of her dress. She drew that up – painfully slowly to Colin’s eyes. The dress stuttered upwards – until it fully exposed the panties tight and skimpy against her pert backside. Then her hands grabbed her underwear and she wiggled them down. When she stepped out of them she leaned her head against the mirror. Through its reflection, she looked at Colin. 

Again, Colin could not find words. He could only wonder why this was happening, could only stare down at Amanda’s ass, exposed to him for the first time, at the dark fracture that divided her cheeks like a cut. 

Still resting her head against the mirror, Amanda reached behind, took Colin’s hands in a loose grip, and placed them where she had gathered the hem of her dress at her waist. Colin’s fingers skittishly moved down, across skin so slick to his touch that within a second his hands had skidded around her thigh to her tummy button, and then three fingers moved down between her legs, ploughing the length of Amanda’s bare pussy. The middle finger stumbled on her clitoris – Amanda bucked at the touch – before it slipped inside her.

Colin’s other hand reached around and grasped her breast through her dress. His palm rubbed against one nipple, hard and long. Amanda retaliated by blindly reaching back, fingers splayed, for Colin’s erection. She worked it out of his briefs and when it was free she grasped it firmly, but awkwardly, pumping her hand back and forth.

Colin’s breath was now arriving in bursts. It felt as though his lungs had shrunk to the size of pebbles. He saw sweat condensed on Amanda’s neck and arms as she removed her hand from his cock. Colin was now free to press against Amanda. The heartbeat of his erection thumped as it nuzzled into the hot, sweaty cleft of her backside. As Amanda rose on her toes, it slid forwards and a wet heat embraced him. He was inside and a feeling of ownership overwhelmed him. He began to thrust and thrust again, deeper each time, with such enthusiasm that he left and entered her afresh with every stroke. The smacks of his hips against her took on the staccato sound of footsteps.

Colin was greedy. He cupped his hand under the crook of Amanda’s leg and lifted it, leaving her calf hanging like the broken hand of a clock. It allowed him deeper still, and the harder he pushed, the more Amanda’s head seemed to drop. Her spine twisted and formed a concave bowl that multiplied the light and shadows inside the cubicle. Colin smacked against her, until, as the train rumbled over some points, they lost their footing and fell together against the door, but all the time Colin’s cock remained in her and kept its rhythm. They were both at a crazy angle and it was almost as if they were fighting, the way he fucked and grasped her through her dress, the way she wriggled, the way that even while fucking he could shove her dress up her back with one hand until he could see her shoulder blades. He wanted to possess all of her. His cock felt totemic. Their skin chafed and slid, and he marvelled at the contrast that inside her was so hot and outside was so cold so slick that he clawed at whatever skin he could cling to – her shoulders, her waist, the rubbery tightness of her bottom. Amanda whimpered before her torso trembled and slackened. He drew away – as far as he could in such a confined space – because this couldn’t last; this perfect moment was fleeting and impermanent, and as he realised, the act overtook his thoughts and, over the gathering of her dress, at the small of her back, he came in thin bursts that continued for half a minute.

For several seconds, as they recovered her breathing, he held himself against the moist coolness of her body and his thumping heartbeat bounced into her back. He smelled her natural scent and at that moment, and for some moments after, devoid of any logic, Colin believed he had always loved Amanda.

Amanda wriggled free. She was businesslike, adjusting her dress down, and grabbing sheets of toilet paper to wipe his mess from her dress. She checked herself in the mirror, before grabbing her panties off the floor and shoving them in her handbag. She squeezed past Colin without a word, back out into the carriage. Colin, still tucking himself in, followed her back to their seats, relieved no one seemed to be paying them attention.

Amanda picked up the book that was still in her seat. She took earpods out of her handbag, put them in, and sat. She did not look at Colin, now opposite her again, though he tried to catch her attention. He wanted to talk, but Amanda looked out of the window as if trying to get her bearings. Her knees were pressed together. But to Colin, though he could no longer see the inside of her thighs, it was easy to picture their glassiness, the way they must still be bathed in her own wetness. He knew she was bare underneath her dress, and for a moment her shamelessness aroused him again before it was overcome by the knowledge she was no longer interested.

The train slowed a few minutes later. It was his station. Colin stood and looked out at the station sign and back to Amanda and, again, tried to form the words to say something, but with her earpods in she wouldn’t be able to hear him anyway. He reached over to her. This time she looked up at him, and turned away. 

He dismounted from the train. As it took off again, he looked towards where he'd sat, at the window frosted with condensation, apart from the little clear opening he’d made with his own hands. Through it, he could make out Amanda, now reading again. And then she was gone.

Colin walked on, out past the station newsagent, pink with cards and balloons, that was about to close. Out past the entrance to the station, where he paused and hailed a taxi. Before it had drawn to a halt he took the Valentine’s card out of his jacket pocket, ripped it in two, and dropped it in a litter bin.