I took the seat near the window, in one of the two and two facing each other. I was facing the way I’d come, facing two elderly sisters. Beside me a man smelling of pipe tobacco, not altogether unpleasant. I needed this ride, 90 minutes of decompression coming from the chaos of being a dutiful daughter where I’d spent three days interviewing for in-home care. I was returning to the chaos of wife and mother where, Liam, our toddler had entered a biting phase, and Jesse the kindergartner had wanted to wear "girl clothes” to school. My husband and I had been out of synch for a few months: his work, our children, my mother.
On the train I could be anyone. I was anonymous. I was a celebrity incognito; I was a spy looking for the double agent; I was a writer researching my next book. I must have dozed through a stop; I opened my eyes and my seatmates had changed. The seat beside me was empty, the elderly sisters were replaced by a man, about my age curling red hair with a sprinkle of grey. Kind eyes.
He admired my watch, recognizing the make and year. Great icebreaker. We talked classical and modern music Gershwin to the Grateful Dead. We’d both been at UNLV for Santana and Jerry Garcia. He loved the outdoors, but not in a sporty way, in a commune with nature way. I loved to sit quietly and listen to the water or the wind, or the music of the spheres.
There were coincidences and parallels. I found myself laughing easily and often. I was unselfconscious, he was forthcoming. Fifteen minutes in, and I was half in love. I did mention I was married. I did. There was no mention by either of us, of anything physical, on the train or otherwise. With talk and laughter, easy banter, we filled each other’s cups and drank in the refreshment. Twenty-five minutes in I was in love. This was the man I would still be dancing with. I would have finished my MFA and pursued my career as a YA novelist. I knew he felt the same way, that I was the one he’d been looking for.
I thought we had another five stops, but he stood.
“It isn’t time yet, beautiful.” He said, squeezing my hand briefly, he then stepped out onto the platform.
— Lkai
On the train I could be anyone. I was anonymous. I was a celebrity incognito; I was a spy looking for the double agent; I was a writer researching my next book. I must have dozed through a stop; I opened my eyes and my seatmates had changed. The seat beside me was empty, the elderly sisters were replaced by a man, about my age curling red hair with a sprinkle of grey. Kind eyes.
He admired my watch, recognizing the make and year. Great icebreaker. We talked classical and modern music Gershwin to the Grateful Dead. We’d both been at UNLV for Santana and Jerry Garcia. He loved the outdoors, but not in a sporty way, in a commune with nature way. I loved to sit quietly and listen to the water or the wind, or the music of the spheres.
There were coincidences and parallels. I found myself laughing easily and often. I was unselfconscious, he was forthcoming. Fifteen minutes in, and I was half in love. I did mention I was married. I did. There was no mention by either of us, of anything physical, on the train or otherwise. With talk and laughter, easy banter, we filled each other’s cups and drank in the refreshment. Twenty-five minutes in I was in love. This was the man I would still be dancing with. I would have finished my MFA and pursued my career as a YA novelist. I knew he felt the same way, that I was the one he’d been looking for.
I thought we had another five stops, but he stood.
“It isn’t time yet, beautiful.” He said, squeezing my hand briefly, he then stepped out onto the platform.
— Lkai
The ideal affair. Great writing! - opelikakat
ReplyDeleteSuch great and delicious storytelling. Bravo!
ReplyDeleteThe ideal moments of communication must end. Perfection is that way. Great line you gave him at the end there! ---Macoff
ReplyDelete