She gets my train sometimes.

  Not my usual train, not the 17** to B****hurst, but the one I have to get if I left my office later than 17** - the 17** to O*****ton.

  She gets that train every day, but I only get it when I'm late. But sometimes, just sometimes, she'll arrive at the platform just before my train does, to brighten up my day.

  She's shorter than me, the way I like 'em; with darker hair than mine, almost brown; she's always wearing nice coats and gloves - she might be rich, but I don't really care about that; and she owns a Kindle, which she reads every day.

  I've tried for a few weeks to pluck up the courage to speak to her. She's very pretty, but not in a standoffish way, just naturally good looking; and we've shared a myriad of glances and even a couple of smiles, but I think she might have a boyfriend. She calls someone occasionally and ends the calls with I love you, but I cling on to the hope that she's talking to her mum. I mean, I never end a call with my mum without saying I love you, so there's still a chance, right?

  So I psyched myself up. I pep-talked myself all the way to confidence until I got to the point where I felt like I could finally reach out and say something like, 'Hey, you have a Kindle - I've been thinking of getting one, is it worth it?' or 'Hey cool, what are you reading?' You know, something that'll start a conversation. That day, I marched cockily onto the platform ready to charm her Ugg boots off, deliberately late just so I knew I'd catch her. I walked to my usual spot, and I waited.

  And I waited.

  And I waited.

  I didn't see her for two weeks after that. Valentine's Day came and went, along with my faith in my own ability to woo her. I assumed she was dead, or at least on a holiday she'd never come back from. I was doomed; it was never meant to be, this wooing I had planned. I packed up my confidence and slid it back under the bed with my guitar case and the box I got this laptop in. 

  Then I saw her again. I saw her and my heart skipped a few hundred beats. This time, I was driving my new car. My shiny new black car was in my hands and I was driving it down my road with all the cockiness required to power the motor. I always knew she lived near me and I'd seen her walking down my road before, but I never expected to see her struggling with bags of shopping while I was in my Shaggin' Wagon and I had a spare seat next to me. My luck was in; I'd hit the jackpot.

  I pulled up next to her and wound the passenger window down while I practised my dark-and-mysterious voice in my head. She didn't look to her left, just continued walking, until I said 'Excuse me...' in the coolest voice I could muster. That is, the coolest voice I could manage before it cracked and my girly nervous voice broke through. She stopped and turned to me, looking suspicious until she recognised me, then just looking a little less suspicious (but still decidedly suspicious). I smiled my glistening smile and gave a cheeky wink. If I'm gonna do it, I might as well go all out, right? Girls love a cheeky guy. 'Want a lift?' I said.

  What a fucking idiot. What a cretin. As soon as the words had come out of my mouth, I hated myself forever more. Even if this girl did fancy me, why would she get in my car as if she knew me? What I had just done was destroy (or, at the very least, damage) every chance I ever had at charming her. This was the best chance I had, and I had blown it in three words. Stupid, unthinking, naive, retarded... 'Yeah, okay,' she said, smiling shyly.

  I almost yelped with excitement. She was about to get in my car! She must like me! Or at least, she must trust me, or she would never have said yes. Keeping her eye contact, I fumbled around my feet for the button for the boot, to pop it and let her store her shopping. Laughing nervously, I finally managed to get a finger on it and the boot popped open behind me. 'Chuck your stuff in the boot,' I said, still grinning and brimming with pleasure.

  The horrible part of the story is that up until now, I've just been setting the scene. From here on is where the real action happens.

  As she walked round to the back of my purring new car, I realised just what would greet her, and my heart sank all the way through my body and the leather of my seats and onto the tarmac of the road below me. My grin became a grimace in ten seconds flat, and when she reached for the handle of my boot, I had to think of a way out before it was way, way too late, and she saw what I was storing back there. 

  The first thing she'd see is the stack of porn mags; probably more pornography than she'd ever seen before. As the lid opened further, she'd see the 24-pack of beer and the latex policeman costume and the extensive stains that even the most trusting of people could only describe as questionable. So far she'd be shocked, but that's not even what I was worried about; that was still to come. Next, she'd be horrified to notice the severed hand of the married lady I met the week before (with wedding ring still attached). She'd notice the hatchet and the chainsaw and the two litres of blood in the Dr Pepper bottle. She'd shudder and scream, and she'd want to run away as fast as she could. If she stuck around long enough, she'd see the grand finale - the holdall containing the tied up secretary, struggling to get out and screaming in a language I can't even speak. That'd be her payload, her big surprise, and I'd never see her again. And all of this rushed through my head before she'd even touched the lid to my trunk. 

  I must admit, I panicked. I just couldn't deal with the pressure, so I floored it. I hit the gas as hard as I could, and disappeared from her view in a screech of tyres and a cloud of black smoke. I knew it would damage my chances with her, but that was a sacrifice I was willing to make as long as they weren't obliterated. As long as she didn't discover my... hobby.

  I'm sure it'll be fine. I'll leave it a week or two, and try talking to her at the station again.