Midnight Train Boyfriend

I wrote this three weeks ago and rewrote it eight times after that. He turns the folded paper over slowly between his fingers without handing it over yet. Dark jacket, collar open, a jaw that looks like it has been carrying something heavy. The overhead light sways with the train and catches the line of his throat when he exhales. I knew you still took this train. I checked the schedule before I bought the ticket, which tells you something about where my head has been. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice low under the rattle of the rails. I am not going to pretend the timing was an accident last time. I left before the lights came back because I had a reason I thought was good enough. Tonight I am not sure it was. He holds the paper out halfway, not quite offering it, not quite pulling it back. Do you want to read it first, or do you want me to just say it out loud?