Whilst indulging in the dangerous art of Avoidance

If you could have any super power what would it be?
I've often wondered this myself, but invariably find myself falling down a rabbit hole of sub questions and debates; for example; do I need to take into account any of my current skills or preferences that may have developed this power or can the superpower be an entirely new element of my persona?
That line of questioning invariably leads on to me wondering whether I already have a superpower, but just haven't used it. Perhaps I didn't know how or was never in a position to do so. What if I was immune to bullets or poison or could survive falling from great heights? Of course, the latter seemed unlikely as I am terrified at the thought of being more than a couple of metres above the ground, surely fate wouldn't be so cruel? Or would that be nature?
As you may be able to surmise from my ramblings, a more realistic super power would likely be procrastination; a skill I have spent a considerable amount of my life perfecting. I would even go as far as to call it an art form.
You may ask whether such a thing is a super power, but who is to say whether super powers have to provide the user with any positive output? By definition a super power is merely an ability which exceeds the limitations of a normal human being. Perhaps there are many people with super powers, they just choose not to use them.
This discussion I have held in my head on multiple occasions in the past and rarely does it reach a satisfactory conclusion. The usual problem is that life often gets in the way, disrupts my thoughts as I return to the unpleasant reality of my mortal existence.
Today is no exception. I am sat on a train, arriving at St Albans City, heading north and back home, away from London. I have a novel in my hands, recommended to me by a work colleague, one I have been meaning to read for sometime, but am yet to find the inclination to read past the first page. It's not that I don't want to, but every time I open the book I find myself being occupied by other things and my attention dissolves.
I also have an examination to take in a couple of weeks as part of my open university degree and am yet to begin revising for. And then there is my own work of literary brilliance, the novel I have yet to write.
For my novel, I already have a concept in my mind; in the opening scene a man is sat in his living room knowing his wife and her lover are asleep upstairs. In his hand is a gun providing him the means to take out his anger – and yet he is restrained from taking action by an unknown force.
I am yet to think of a title, as I haven't quite decided on the exact reason for the man’s hesitance. Perhaps it is a higher power? Or his own conscience? Or maybe it is simply a case of procrastination – perhaps he is simply putting off the task because it is something he knows he has to do.
As always, despite the various constructive users of my time available, I elect to take an entirely different approach to that which would seem most obvious. I gaze out the window at the people crowded on the platform opposite, clearly eager to reach the capital. Perhaps I will gain inspiration from those around me.
I scan the platform for a likely canvas on which to project my ideas, and then as if by magic I see a couple walking hand in hand, each pulling along a suitcase. Perfect.
The man, a good half foot taller than his partner has the larger of the cases, although both are of considerable size. I would estimate them both as being late twenties, maybe even early thirties. The lady has long blonde hair, tied in a loose pony tail, whilst he has short, mousy hair and is clean shaven. Both are wearing summer attire and the paleness of their legs suggest they are about to head abroad to warmer climates.
“I told you we had plenty of time.” The Male turns to his partner and exclaims triumphantly.
“Yeah, OK. I just didn't want to be late.” She replies through gritted teeth. She doesn't want an argument on their first day of the holiday, before they've even left the country.
“You've got to trust me with these things. There's no need to be so grumpy, we're on holiday.” He continues not recognising the idiocy in his words.
I look at the way he walks with that undeserved self confident swagger. That is most certainly something he could have been saying. Judging from her expression I can also easily read her response.
She chooses not to remind him that the reason they were able to leave on time was because she was up four hours earlier, packing the cases, cancelling the milk, cleaning and tidying up – numerous tasks she had asked him to complete in the days preceding  departure day. She simply replies, “Yes dear.” Of course he doesn't recognise the sarcasm, he never does.
Maybe if he'd got home at a reasonable time yesterday evening instead of rolling in at three in the morning, she might have woken with a slightly better temperament. Even better, perhaps he could have refrained from going out at all and instead helped with packing the night before.
There is a clear gap beginning to appear between the two, as the lady’s body language indicates an annoyance that isn't recognised by her partner. They stop by the yellow line that creates a barrier from the rail tracks.
At first there is silence, both looking around at the fellow travellers joining them. At this point my mind goes blank, whereas just moments earlier I had been able to improvise a dialogue based on their mannerisms, I was now faced with a pause in proceedings.
It was it the other way round? It was as though the body language of both parties was reacting to the improvised dialogue I was creating in my head.
My temporary writer’s block is given a lift by the platform announcement. “Passengers on platform 2,” (where the couple under observation are currently waiting), “please step back from the yellow line as the train approaching will not be stopping here. The train arriving at platform 2 does not stop here, please stand behind the yellow line. Thank you.”
My eyes return to the couple and I see her reach into her pocket and retrieve a mobile phone, possibly receiving a text message.
I wonder what it could say. Who would be texting her on the first day of her holiday? Her mother prematurely checking she arrived safely? Her neighbour confirming instructions on how to feed the fish? No, looking at the stern expression appearing across her face it’s neither of those.
She lowers the phone and turns to her partner, at this moment completely oblivious to what is about to transpire.
“Who was the girl you were dancing with last night?” she asks, going straight to the point. She looks like that kind of person. No nonsense.
“What? No girl. Was that Beefy trying to wind you up?”
“It wasn't Beefy. I've just had a text from Michelle and she saw you.”
“Michelle? Was she out last might? I didn't see her anywhere. She must have confused me with someone else.”
“Oh, she saw you. Long enough to get a picture of you.” Like a professional poker player, she has concealed, a winning hand in the shape of her phone. She turns to face her partner head on, her expression asking for him to raise the stakes.
He knows he should fold. He doesn't know the exact extent of the evidence contained on the phone, but it is likely to be damning and not a battle he should pursue. And yet his arrogance gets the better of him.
“A picture? Of who?” he scoffs.
It's time to call and correct her winnings (if that is the right word for it). She raises the phone to reveal her winning hand, thrusting it into his eye line. “That's you isn't it? Kissing that blonde in the red dress. I'm afraid I don't recognise her, but I'm pretty certain I can pick out my own fiancé when I see him, even if he has someone else's tongue down his throat.”
I imagine the anger building up inside her, the rage stemming from this act of betrayal. How had she been so blind? She could continue her verbal onslaught, like a heavyweight boxer with their opponent on the ropes, but I see the pain overflowing through her body.
I don't believe that In such a situation as this she would be able to refrain from a physical reaction. I imagine she would respond with a slap across the face, possibly even a closed first. And as he moves in to try and restrain her, he is repelled by a double handed push across his chest.
To my astonishment, I see the those exact events play out precisely as I have predicted. The man steps backwards in surprise and then loses his balance and trips. He spins around in an attempt to prevent falling on his backside, but instead stumbles forward and disappears from my view, tumbling from the platform onto the rails.
That is when I hear the rumbling of the train tracks as a fast train approaches. There is a loud scream from the other platform and suddenly my view is impeded by the south bound train passing through the station.
Had I been responsible for that? Had I somehow caused the death of a compete stranger? Surely it was beyond coincidence that such disaster should befall this poor individual in the exact manner that I had imagined, as if they were acting in accordance with my wishes.
The train passed by as quickly as it had arrived and I see chaos on the platform, as people are crowded around where the man had fallen. And his partner now crouched down on the floor, crying inconsolably.
It is at this point my train departs, in a surreal haze of peacefulness and calm within my carriage, I leave this scene of devastation behind me.