Taking the journey to make it up to someone is always a tough thing for me to do. I think it's the journey itself rather than the apology. It's like you're in some form of stasis, waiting for the travel to end so that you can make amends for your mistakes.
I look down, and the flowers I have brought as a peace offering gently vibrate, in time with the train as it moves across the tracks. The regular clack and hum of the train should be relaxing, but it's not. I feel on edge knowing what I have to do, if the train ever gets there. My apology on hold, the pause button pressed until we reach destination when the playback is resumed and I can say sorry, forgive me.
It's started to rain again, the dark clouds, mirroring my mood scurrying by as the train weaves its way through the countryside, the rain drops streaking across the glass as we drive forwards. The heating kicks in, and I feel the warm blast of air from the vents down by my feet. I move my legs towards it, embracing the heat. Eventually I feel myself drifting off, my head starting to drop, my vision darkening as my eyes start to droop and close.

I must have drifted in and out of a dreamless sleep until the slowing of the train roused me. My eyes opened and the fog of sleep slowly lifted as we sauntered into the station. We stopped and the doors swoosh open, cold air rushing in, passengers lifting luggage down from overheads before scurrying off, our brief, unspoken collaboration in the journey concluded without introduction or farewell. So close in physicality, so far apart in our self created cocoon of books, newspapers, phones and headphones. Others replace them, with the same grim faced determination to stay remote even when so physically close enter the carriages. We avoid eye contact, no greeting of welcome is offered by the resident passengers, and those joining offer no apology for violating the space of the incumbents. Luggage is racked, headphones are placed on heads, the halo of distortion as the tinny crackle emits from their head gear. Others notice the disturbance but we say nothing, the agreement complicit, you stay out of my existence, and I will ignore yours.
The doors close and we edge gently on, and out of the station. A late comer, a closing door dodger scurries by coffee in one hand, bag in the other as she finds her seat, checking her ticket against the seat numbers stamped on plastic circles on the panels above the window. A stray bag, casually left in the aisle, wraps it's handles around her ankles and lurches her forward, arms flung out before her to break her fall as she is launched. The brown, milky coffee spews from her cup, splattering the chest and shoulder of a man seated a row in front her intended seat. He cries out in shock, partly from the warm liquid, splattering his shoulder, splashing up onto his face, and partly that his self imposed isolation had been so violently shattered by the wet, warm liquid, and the cry of the woman, high pitched and piercing as she screams apologises. Other passengers are roused, eyes raised from books, and headphones removed as if broken from their cells. No one is sufficiently shook to lend assistance, we just stare, as the attacker dabs tissues, offering copious apologies. I stifle a grin, the first half smile since my journey started as my memories are jogged.

***************
"So Adam, your last day with us tomorrow, end of an era. You gonna miss us?" Jeremy had asked me, as he sipped from his pint. Cigarette smokes shrouds him, the lit tobacco is held between the first two fingers. He replaces his drink back on the bar. The Spice Girls inform us that 'Two will become become one' from the jukebox in the corner.

"Not as much as you'll miss me, you'll actually have to start doing some work now" I fire back through a smile.
I like Jeremy, he's a real grafter, he will be fine without me, but I'm not going to let him know that, "I'll give you six months til you lose the rest of that hair"

"Nothing wrong with being bald. All the fashion nowadays." He says running his free hand through his thinning hair.
I can talk, mine had started heading south a while back, and had succumbed to a buzz cut back in 1990. Three years later and I was happy with my bristled hair do. Certainly quicker each morning, now I didn't have to gel and shape every morning. The Benefit office that I worked in seemed to encourage my new rougher hair style, it seemed to lessen the chance of people becoming confrontational in the office as their benefit claims were denied. It wasn't intentional, a happy accident of my increasing levels of testosterone that created a rapid retreat of my hairline. I must look meaner, rougher. Without planning I had become the office bouncer, dissuading disgruntled claimants against allowing their frustration to bubble over into violence.
I gulped the rest of my beer and banged the glass down in the counter, the foam making a gentle slide down the inside of the glass, "Another?"

"Do bears shit in the woods?" Jeremy says before a loud belch, and "I need a piss"

My soon to be ex colleague totters off. I smile, as he weaves towards the toilet, the alcohol in his bloodstream affecting his balance. He bounces into a wall, and utters an apology to it. I smile and turn back to the bar, trying to catch the bar man's eye to order more drink. Before I can achieve my goal, the barman deep in conversation with a woman at the bar renders me invisible, I feel a wet cold splash down my back. I gasp as the frigid liquid sticks my shirt to my back, and I feel it run down my ass, between the cheeks. I feel it pool on the seat beneath me. I jump from the stool and spin around to see a handsome young guy, an inch or two taller than me. He must be six feet, at least. The empty glass that had just emptied its contents over me in his hand, with ams spread high and wide in mock surrender

"Mate, I'm so sorry" he said. The words seemed sincere, but the mirth in his eyes said otherwise. They seemed to dance in amusement, as I stood there, dripping cold beer down my legs onto my shoes. Now I'm not one for aggression or quick flashes of retribution. Even if I was though, my anger would've been blunted by my assailant. He was gorgeous, gym fit, muscly arms protruded from a T-shirt that clung to his chest, the wrapping to a delicious present. The twinkling eyes, a deep brown eyes, drew me in like magnets. A fashionable cut of thick black hair framed his face, completed with a hint of stubble across his chin. I found myself melting.

"Let me get you a drink" he offers, an arm around my sodden shoulders as he turns me to the bar. He raises a hand to the barman, "Give this man whatever he wants"

Jeremy returned, surprised that the party had grown from two to three, our new friend, Owen buying drinks, fitting in straight away. I found myself staring at him as my clothes dried and his banter warmed us with the natural easy nature of his tales and stories. Jeremy finished two more pints, and decided to bail, staggering away into the night leaving me with Owen. Jeremy could never hold his drink, which was fine by me, as it was just Owen and I now, and I wanted to get to know this guy better. Least he could do after showering me with beer.

"So apart from throwing beer over men in bars, what do you do for a living?" I ask, the warmth of the beer loosening me up. I was drunk but still sober enough to realise the man sat at my side was absolutely stunning, and I wanted to see if he was gay. He didn't look it, but nothing ventured, and all that.

'What do you mean? This IS my job, I spend my whole life firing things at people!" He laughed, and finished his drink. I laughed too but felt like he wasn't totally joking. Something in those eyes told a truth, as weird as it was.

"You lost me," I say, studying him. His smile faltered briefly, like a flickering candle and then it was back, beaming, his eyes locking contact with mine.

"Army" he said, making an imaginary gun by making a barrel of a gun with his fingers. After a few pretend shots he dissolved the gun and gripped his glass, studying the empty receptacle, all humour gone. It was as if the sun had just gone in, a sudden shade. The mood had shifted and I tried to grapple it back, I didn't want him to go cold. I was enjoying my new friend Owen

"Well you can fire your weapon at me anytime" I laughed, instantly cringing at the crass comment. Even so, I wanted to check him out, see if he was gay. I hoped so. I liked him, even with the damp patch on my back and ass, thanks to his carelessness.

The ringing of the time bell saved him an answer, "Time Gentlemen please" the barman shouted. Punters jeered him jovially, a few curses fired his way, in jest. I finished the last dregs of my drink and sat there awkwardly, unable to buy another round to keep the night going, the barman's shouted notification signalling the end of the night and forcing me to make a move. Owen saved me this time, from an awkward question.

"Let's get some beer from the off license and go to the park?" He asked. It sounded like something a pair of teenagers would do, but I immediately jumped at the chance to extend my night with Owen. We both stood, me a bit unsteady and we headed out through the emptying bar and into the night.

We ambled towards the park, a carrier bag of tinned beer swinging from Owen's hand. Vague warnings of park stabbings, and murder swam in my mind, but I pushed them away, intoxicated not only by the beer, but also my handsome companion. The park was lit along the pathway, illuminating the walkway, the grass area plunged in darkness, a wall of black just beyond the concrete pathway. We walked, our shadows chasing behind us, then in front, as we passed from lamp post to lamp post. We found a bench and sat together. His leg bounced against mine as he reached between his feet into the bag of booze. A jolt of expectation ran up my leg, through my groin and up to my brain. It felt good. I pushed back gently. Owen didn't seem to mind and remained steadfast, our legs pressed against each other. He snapped open a can and passed it to me to and prepared one for himself. Our legs stayed pressed together, I pushed a little harder to see if it was an accident and he would move away. I could feel him pressing back gently. I felt an awakening and a stirring. This felt nice, my heart increased pace, I could feel it in my chest.
I took a long swig. It tasted like what it was, cheap offy booze, but it was nectar if it prolonged my night with my new friend.
"So tell me about the army" I ask, aware our legs were still touching. I could feel the warmth of him through my trousers.
"Not a huge amount to say, been in it since I left school. Ten years in, Corporal now, done a few tours, seen a few bad things, done a few tough things". He lapsed into silence, turning the can round in his hands. He seemed aware of his silence, and the dampening of the moment, and asked, "You?"

"Well, until tomorrow I am a benefit officer at the DHSS, and as of Monday I'm starting work at a solicitors". It sounded what it was, dry and boring. Especially compared to the mysterious enigmatic army man beside me, hinting at a glorious career inhibited by the official secrets act, perhaps. In my mind he was suddenly a secret agent, a James Bond, risking life for Queen and country on vitally important missions. I shuffled forms from A to B.

Owen smiled again, the joviality returning to his demeanour instantly, "So between now and Monday you're a professional stooge for beer throwers"

He laughed. I laughed. His laugh was sexy, deep and hearty, that seemed to explode from him. "Yeah I suppose so" I laughed back.

"Well in that case" he said, reaching into his stash of tins. He popped one and paused, his eyes locking onto mime, shining in merriment and the reflection of the lamps. He slowly raised the can over my head and maintaining eye contact started to pour the beer. I gasped in shock but didn't move as the beer gushed down over my face, running streams over my shirt, landing on my groin, before running off onto the park bench and onto the concrete below. I could hear it patter, like rain.
I leant forward across him and plucked a can from the bag between his legs. My wet shirt shed droplets onto his jeans. I snapped it open, but he grasped my hand.
"Oh no, no, no" he whispered and slowly prised each of my fingers off the can, "you're the expert when it comes to beer target practise"
He lifted him arm and emptied the second can over my head. It cascaded down my body, my sodden shirt offering little in the way of absorption so the flow was free, and cold. And liberating, like jumping into the cold sea.

"Well Adam, what do you say?" Owen asked. There was no real question here, he was loving it.

"Thank you" I answered.