Disclaimer: I do not own Cabaret. I don't know exactly who does (maybe Kander & Ebb, or maybe Bob Fosse, or maybe even Liza Minnelli) but it is definitely NOT me. I'm just an obsessed fan. Thank you.
Dedication: To the 54 gang, without whose words of encouragement…sappy stuff, sappy stuff, etc. Love and kisses from the "Italian" midget.
And now for my story…
The train pulled away, right on schedule, not missing a beat. She had watched it for as long as she could, half-expecting it to stop, expecting him to come running back to her, pick her up, and carry her off. She had thought briefly about going back with him, but that would have been too much trouble. Besides, if he had wanted her there, he would have said something. Wouldn't he? Walking home, she could not stop thinking about him. Them. Him. Each place she passed was somewhere they had been together. A restaurant where they had eaten, a park bench where they had sat. She remembered everything. A train whistle sounded in the distance and she thought of how ironic it was, really--the train had brought them together, and the train had taken him away. Or, rather, she had driven him away. She knew it was her fault. She knew it, she knew she could not do anything about it, and it was tearing her apart. What if, she kept thinking...what if...no, no. It was starting to rain; not too hard, but enough for her to wish she had brought an umbrella. God, she thought, I don't even think I own an umbrella.
By the time she got home, she felt frozen from the rain and tired from thinking too much. She flopped down on her bed--their bed--and closed her eyes. All she really wanted to do was curl up and sleep for a week, and then wake up and have everything be the way it was before. Before she met him, before she fell in love with him, before...everything. She rolled over on the bed and buried herself in the covers. She could not, would not stop thinking about him. As she drifted off, she wondered if he was thinking of her too.
******
His head against the window, he could hear the low roar of the train. He had hardly moved from that position since the train's departure from the station in Berlin. With his head cocked, leaning against the window, he had watched her walk away. He saw her get so far, then turn around and look back to make sure she was out of his line of vision--or so she thought--and he saw her stay there, leaning wearily on a wall, waiting for the train to start moving. He knew what she was really waiting for--for him to come back and forgive everything so they could live happily ever after. He wanted that too, more than anything, but he knew in his heart that it just could not be done. He had wanted to ask her to go back with him; in London at least she might have had a chance in the real world of theater. But all of a sudden, things had just become too complicated. He had realized how difficult it was to be with her and make her happy, no matter how much he loved her. It never would have worked out anyway. After all, he was a plain, ordinary English teacher and she was...well, she wanted more than that, more than he could have given her.
He rested his head on the seat and closed his eyes. He could still see her, standing there at the station, looking cold and tired and lost--his last memory of her. He could still feel the way her hand had felt in his that last time: delicate, soft, and cold. Cold. He remembered how cold she had been, how it was nearly mid-winter and she did not have a coat. I should have bought one for her, he thought to himself. He worried about her so...he knew he would be all right, he could take care of himself. But she...she would get by. She would have to. If anything happened to her and it was his fault...He suddenly wished she had come with him. If she was sitting there next to him on that train, he would know that she was all right. He missed her...needed her...loved her.