They sit at a small table at the station, where they can barely contain their grief at returning home.

The train is coming at 2:45, an infrequent non-rush hour commuter.

Nothing substantial to eat, nothing to send him off with at least a sandwich.

The moment does not call for candy bars and chewing gum.

He is going back to his wife, she is going back to her husband.

They have spent the previous three weeks at a writer’s colony.

They went to a country restaurant, but there was no live music.

They spent two nights at an offseason resort. 

All the difficult subjects, by unspoken agreement, had been avoided.

Where will we live? Where will we find a car since we both live in the city without them?

How will we afford all of this once we tell them? How will we work up the emotional strength

to cast down people who have never done them wrong?

Quite the opposite, the ones they will now stab again and again

have buoyed them with financial support in their marital households;

Have been the breadwinners, the ones with the corporate jobs, 

the ones who have the insurance policies, the healthcare, the money for vacations,.

How will we do it when what we have may be a momentary writer’s infatuation. Or is it more?

There is nothing to drink at the little café in the train station except energy drinks and their energy is high.

What are we going to do?

Do we keep this to ourselves?

Do we hide from our spouses

how we feel? Do we hide

how we feel from our children?

He swears he will do it.

She tells him she loves him

More than her husband, more than

her life to these moments. these weeks.

She will gladly substitute her love for him

for the security, the garden, the retirement,

all of her friends.

She disciplines herself not to count them

but to stay in the moment at the station.

“We are going to make it through,” he insists,

as he holds her hand under the table.

“I will go back and tell her.

You will go back and tell him.

We will work out the details.

We will not think of the grinding down,

Of the one day grinding into the next,

The friends you cannot tell, the friends

Who will be gone after the break is made.

They sit in the Weston Train Station in the March sun.

It is a remarkably warm day. Off peak, there are few people waiting.

They can see their story complete.

No one nudges them aside to get the briefcase to go to work.

They can believe there is no one to say no, they can believe

that one conversation of renunciation will be enough, no questions asked, and no guilt.

They will sleep well in the guest room for however long it takes

to rent the faraway house, to buy the car without credit.

She loves him more than anyone she has known.

He loves her with his face hard. 

Finally, he eats a bag of peanuts.

His train is coming.

This is a farewell that occurs on the steps

Of the train platform.

This is a farewell of promises

to be back again on this spot

coming down the stairs.