Their first train was streamlined, modern, and fast—an engineering marvel that streaked through the countryside in a blur. The French called it le train à grande vitesse, and when it ran, it was a source of pride, a symbol of innovation. But now, parked and abandoned at night, it appeared fragile, its stainless-steel skin muted by layers of snow. What was once a marvel now lay dormant, its sleek form buried beneath the weight of a winter storm.

The American couple sat inside a small, dimly lit café in the train station, lost in their own uncertainty, the air thick with the murmur of fellow travelers. They had been sipping wine for hours, their eyes glazed from the endless wait for the snow to relent. 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, 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 this train would be leaving shortly,” the man snapped. “That was three hours ago!”

The agent shrugged. “This fast train cannot handle the snow, Monsieur. Once it clears, you will be on your way.”

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 in a brimming ashtray and folded the newspaper in fourths without looking up. Smoke spiraled toward a rickety ceiling fan and a nineteenth-century mural of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden.

“Well, Monsieur, we do have another train, a mail train. It is about to depart. This train can most assuredly plow through the snowdrifts and get you to Toulon.” He glanced past the man at the woman sitting at a table, and back at the man, his tone taking on a subtle amusement. “The mail train does transport a few empty passenger cars. I’m sure we can make one available for you. But. . . it is slow,” the agent said.

“How slow?” the man pursued.

The agent whistled attempting to convert the train’s metrics. “Nearly ninety miles per hour, Monsieur,” he answered.

The man let out a laugh, part disbelief, part exasperation. “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 sat hidden in the shadows of the station. Almost forgotten, its presence had become a well-kept secret. When the couple boarded, they were greeted by a worker—a self-described “postal sorter,” who took their tickets with a vague air of detachment. He led them down a narrow hallway to their compartment, which felt cramped. The space was little more than a glorified walk-in closet, with just enough room for a fold-out bed, a narrow table, and two chairs. In a corner, behind a small door hid a bathroom stall, complete with a sink, toilet, and fresh towels.

The man smiled, tipped the engineer, and kissed the woman on the cheek. “Isn’t this romantic?” he asked, more of a push than a question. The woman, in turn, emitted a half-smile, said nothing, and laid her small vanity bag on the table.

Within thirty minutes, the train was running outside of Paris and into the rolling countryside. Farm after farm greeted them, with each white farmhouse and barn lit by brilliant streetlights on yard poles and the sides of buildings. The white halogen lights reflected off the snow, amplifying the landscape even more brilliantly, as if it were dusk and not the middle of a night shrouded in a storm.

The couple sat in front of the window, speechless, mesmerized by the ghost-like terrain fading in and out, as hills and fields vanished and reappeared. Eventually, the landscape began to shift, revealing its more troubling side—abandoned buildings, neglected farms, and signs of decay. Yet neither of them commented on what they saw, preferring the night’s beauty over blight.

Minutes passed, and still, they sat in silence, the tension between them palpable. The man finally spoke, his voice low but filled with awe. “This storm is frightening, but at the same time… exhilarating.”

The woman nodded, her voice hesitant. “Yes. It is both, I suppose,” she replied, not embracing the man’s enthusiasm.

“What’s wrong?” the man asked, irritated, sensing her hesitation.

The woman carefully parsed her words in response to his question. “It’s just that we left home without much notice. I keep wondering what the children think—how you suddenly needed me with you as a traveling companion after so many years.”

“I’m sure they’re fine with it,” the man reassured, turning to face the woman. “Look, they’re at the university as we hoped. We’ve done our job. You provided them with nurturing when I was gone, and I provided the roof over their heads. Now it’s time to focus on us.” Pausing, the man did his best to connect with feelings he rarely voiced but had been encouraged to share by their counselors. “I realize I sprung this on you and probably shouldn’t have. I was insensitive.  I’m sorry.”

The woman exhaled from a long overdue breath, her gaze locked on the storm-swept horizon, and said nothing. Unspoken truths loomed between them, heavier than the snow blanketing the fields beyond. They had spent years—decades—putting their children’s needs before their own, yet now with the children grown and independent, the balance between them seemed fragile, broken. She remembered their conversations about waiting for the children to grow up before resuming a more adult-centered relationship and how she had become more self-sufficient to survive with each passing year. Still, he grew impatient and jealous of her lack of attention. Now, he sought to unilaterally rebuild their past and she was leery of his newfound sincerity.

The man’s lips puckered, unsure what to say next. Watching his wife through the strobing darkness, the outside light gliding across her face, memories of their youth resurfaced—when they had been carefree students, madly in love and unable to keep their hands off each other.

“You look magnificent tonight,” he whispered.

“Thank you,” she replied, her voice insincere.

“I love you,” he said, gathering her hand.

“You used to say that a lot,” she said. “It’s nice to hear it again.”

He nodded, his gaze drifting toward the window. “I should have said it more often. But somewhere along the way, I felt like I lost you. I quit caring. That’s why I brought you here. I needed you with me, as a show of my love,” the man stated. “Think of this as the honeymoon we never had.”

The woman took another long breath before turning to face him. Her expression had hardened, and her softness dissipated. Though still youthful in appearance, her eyes reflected the pain of an experienced but trampled soul, beaten down by years of broken promises. “Really? You needed me with you?” she asked, her voice quivering. “It’s not because you have a meeting in Toulon and I was convenient? Or—”

“Or?”

“Your guilt?”

The man’s mouth pinched a sad moue. He glanced at his feet, speechless, and thought for a few seconds about how best to deflect the question, knowing anything he said would be met with skepticism or, worse, disdain. “Yes, Uncle Sam is paying for our trip. I can’t deny that. But the truth is I wanted to create new memories with you, now that the kids are gone—”

“Our children will never be gone. They’re just not living with us anymore,” the woman interrupted.

“That’s not what I meant. What I meant was—”

“I know what you meant. I just don’t like what you implied,” she said, brushing his hand away, and then clutching her pearls. “You know, I managed quite well without you. I’ve changed.”

“I know you have and—”

“I’m not the incapable princess you married, sitting patiently on the sidelines,” the woman chided. She paused, a bitter smile shaking across her lips. “Maybe someone else can play the damsel in distress to appease your sense of masculinity, but not me. Not anymore.”

The man leaned back and took a breath. “I understand but you’re the one who built a cold wall between us.”

“A cold wall? Walls are for scaling when you want to win a heart back. You never tried. Not until this excuse of a honeymoon.” The woman felt herself slide into a morass of bitterness and couldn’t stop. “And what about her? How does she figure into our lives?” she demanded, her voice rising.

The man buckled. He slumped in his chair and covered his face, sensing disaster in the making. “I’ve told you before, a thousand times. She was a mistake. A horrible mistake,” he moaned. “It will never happen again,” he said, his hands trembling. “I’m sorry. I can’t say those words enough for you, but we need to move past this.”

 The man paused to exhume more sentiments. When he finally sat up, he gathered the woman’s face in his hands and turned her so their eyes could meet. “I love you. I’ll always love you. . . And I’m trying my best. . . And I do desire you so very much tonight.” He sensed a glimmer of trust in her eyes but had no idea what to say next.  His thoughts churned awkwardly. “I want to make love to you, here, right now,” he blurted. “To hold you and kiss you. . . To prove to the world we still belong together. Two people making love on a slow train,” he stammered. “Can we?”

His wife scoffed. “No,” she said, pulling his hands away.

“Why not?” he pressed.

“Because people are out there watching,” she said, pointing to the countryside.

“Not with the compartment light off,” the man countered, his eyes wide, hoping. “Besides, who could see us here in the dark whizzing by at 90 miles per hour? No one.”

“And there’s no way for me to clean up after.”

“We have a private bathroom. Fresh towels.”

“Maybe tomorrow after your important meeting,” she mocked. The woman took a deep breath and turned away to avoid the man’s eyes. Peering out the window, she no longer saw the night’s beauty. Instead, she saw his face reflected in the glass—the same face that had lied to her for years. Could she trust him again? She wondered. “I’m going to bed,” she announced. “And don’t try to wake me.”

The man sensed there was no changing the woman’s mind. He watched her stand to unpack her vanity bag and undress, discarding her clothes in a heap on the floor. He watched her shimmy a nightgown over her bare shoulders, climb into bed, and turn to face the wall, her back to him. And he understood that all of her anguish was because of him. Saddened, he turned away to look at the countryside and, for a moment, imagined them young again—when their life felt like a slow, steady train. He knew those days were nothing more than a fading glint in the rearview mirror of time.

Outside, the snow-covered fields blurred into a soft, muted gray under the faint glow of distant lights. He watched iced-over trees drift past, each one standing like lone sentinels against the cold. The hushed beauty of the night pressed against the window, as the rhythmic sound of the train’s wheels clattered against the rails. He turned to gaze at 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, the man shed his clothes and climbed into bed. He kissed the back of the woman’s neck, feeling her warmth in the chill of the night, and rolled over to face the window. As he watched the outside world fade away, he felt her stir, turn, and grope through the darkness for his hand. The touch was light, but her hand remained, small and still against his, as the train continued onward through the winter storm.

– DM Anderson