Two men clinging

Dusk on a foggy winter night. No one around to see two men clinging to each other on the platform.

“You’ll come back to me?”

“I promise.”

A train whistle: the loneliest sound in the world.

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Except it was a horn. I looked through my dirty windshield. It was hot summer and clear skies. It wasn’t 1942. It hadn’t been a passenger train. The crossing gates were lifting and it was time to move on.

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