The train did not stop throughout the journey. There were no other stops, but Charlestown and that was where it was heading. I can’t say how Stan was bearing the journey, as I was to the brink of swooning to the floor from the disconcerting journey. I do recall we never said a word to each other. Normally we had long conversations and when I was watching the picturesque landscape he was writing away on his notebook about our adventure. All that had been put aside as we rode the train from hell. By evening, I had settled in my seat and though I was less alert I was not about to fall asleep. I had misgivings. Stan didn’t look too comfortable himself.
When we reached the station to Charlestown, we barely had alighted from it that it began to blow its whistle, signaling it was ready to return to its port with or without us on it. Stan and I made a rush to the platform that in our hurry, Stan left his traveling typewriter on the seat. We watched the train chugged away at the speed of light. Stan was by then having a miserably day. That had been his favorite typewriter. It had traveled with him far and wide, and now it was gone. I felt terrible for Stan. I had never seen him dismayed before. By then it had begun to rain. We huddled close to each other under the only roof the station had, which leaked all over. It was there where we waited.
“Why didn’t you grab my typewriter?” Stan had blurted out angrily.
“I-I I’m sorry,” I stammered, shock by his outburst. “I though you had.”
“I set it right next to you,” Stan raised his voice. “How could you not possibly see it?”
“I’m sorry,” was all I could say.
“It was right there,” Stand paced back and forth.
Stan had never acted this way before and his behavior came to a surprise to me. I looked down at my white dress shoes, upset as he was. I was still dressed in my cashmere shirt and pleated skirt from Sunday. It was the only clothes I had. I knew Stan didn’t mean to direct his anger at me, but he was frustrated and everything that could possibly go wrong went wrong.