On the train

I caught the 9:53 train from the San Antonio station, found a seat, and sat down. I tried to read, but it had been a long day at work. I put my book down and stared at nothing much. At each station, one or two people got on, and one or two got off.

A woman got on and sat down in the seat across the aisle from me. She was talking to someone on a cell phone, and her voice sounded odd. At first I thought she had some strange foreign accent, but then I realized she was crying and sniffling a little bit as she talked.

I stopped listening to her. Then her voice rose, and I couldn’t help but hear her say, “…but he doesn’t. I’m always giving and giving, but when I need help, he isn’t there for me.” Her voice grew softer and all I could hear was an occasional “fuck him” or “fuck that.” Curious, I stole a glance at her: her hair was dyed red, her arms were completely covered in gaudy tattoos, she had two piercings just above her left cheekbone, she carried a zebra-print bag, and she looked prosperous and relatively affluent. She was curled up in her seat, looking dejected but not particularly sad. I thought she might be in her early twenties.

My thoughts drifted on to other things. I don’t know when she got off the train.

1 thought on “On the train

  1. Victor

    Being “on the train” is a metaphor for life. We spend most of our lives waiting, getting distracted, being puzzled by strange behavior, not being able to concentrate on anything for more than a few moments… your post captures that nicely.

Comments are closed.