Flash Fiction

Even Though the Rails Were Singing

He sees her descending the stairway to the platform on the other side of the tracks: first her feet in low, black heels, then her calves in dark stockings, then her lipstick-red skirt, her gray cardigan sweater, her auburn hair draped over one eye and cheek. He watches as she steadies herself against a pillar, bends her knee, reaches back, and plucks something stuck to the bottom of her heel. A move so adroit, so vulnerable, so attentive to detail. He walks toward the edge of the platform and watches as she waits, arms hugging herself, looking at the floor of the platform in front of her. He climbs down off the platform and begins to step over the tracks even though the rails of the outbound train are singing. No! Someone…. Oh god…. No…. He’s going to kill himself! On the other side of the tracks, he plants his palms on the floor and hoists himself up to the opposite platform. He dusts off his pants and suit jacket — he is well-dressed, wears expensive-looking shoes, his hair is dark and thick, an unruly curl dangles over his forehead. He walks up to her. She is frozen like a startled deer. She flinches ever so slightly as he reaches for her left hand and holds it softly in his. What is he doing? Commuters pass them by, some stare, others don’t even notice. It could look to some like a marriage proposal. She is so stunned that she can’t move, can’t speak. He smiles, peers sincerely into her eyes and asks softly: “Don’t you recognize me?” She looks down at his tie — deep blue with patterned fleur de lis — then back into his eyes. She says, “No.” He tilts his head in disbelief. The outbound train, presumably hers, pulls into the station. She peers around him, looks anxiously at the train car. A heavyset man stares blankly out the window toward them. Above them, the electronic news feed reads: 5:04pm . . . . . . Over 200 killed in Bangladesh . . . . . As the flood of commuters begins flowing around them, she stares into the faces of people passing by but none of them see her, their frozen expressions locked on the ground in front of them. She looks up at him and begins to speak: “I…” she says, and then stops. He tilts his head again, this time waiting for her to finish what she started to say. When the doors of the train close, she deflates, her hand slackens in his. She watches as their reflection flickers in the windows of the passing subway cars. Once the train is gone and the station returns to quiet, he begins to pluck softly at the cuff of her sweater with his free hand. He stares into her face and sees all the women in his life, his mother and her sisters: Betty Jean Polly Francis Lenora, all of them gathered in New Kensington, all of them sitting at the kitchen table and calling to him “Come here, Darling.” “What’s the matter, Darling?” “Why such a sad little face?” “Come here, let me kiss you.” “Aren’t you a sweet thing?” “Give Aunt Polly a great big kiss.” And where were all the men? His father and his uncles, war veterans hovering on the perimeter with bandaged heads, arms in slings, one missing a thumb, all prehensilability lost. And all those pretty women pulling him tightly to their chests, hugging him so close he can’t tell where he stops and they begin. And he wants that now, from her, this woman whom he’s sure he knows from somewhere — whose skin is his skin; whose large hazel eyes are his eyes. And he asks her again: “Please, don’t you see it? Don’t you see we are the same — you and I?” And she just shakes her head, no. For the first time, he shifts his gaze from her eyes, his head drops and he stares at the empty space between them. An older woman waddles past with shopping bags in each hand. She turns, yells for her husband, then continues. Her husband shuffles up to them then stops and stares. His wife yells again as she collapses onto a bench and drops her bags to the ground. The husband waves her off, shakes his head, and says with a sardonic grin, “Don’t let this happen to you.” They both watch as he walks off toward his wife, then once again look into each other’s eyes. He smiles; she tries to. The news sign announces the arrival of the next outbound train. He speaks to her softly, “Tell me you’ll try. Just say that… that you’ll try and see how we…” pointing to her then himself, “you and I. We’re the same.” She quickly nods yes, that yes, she will, and he lets go of her hand. She takes a step back from him and turns to face the tunnel entrance. The train pulls into the station. He watches as she enters the car with other commuters and moves so he can see where she sits. She closes her eyes and then covers her face with her hand. He watches until the train disappears into the void of the tunnel. He appears to have aged since he first saw her; his face is drawn, brows furrowed. He is exhausted. He must rest. He shakes his head, brushes the hair out of his eyes, and looks around him at the accumulating commuters in the station. Above him the news feed reads: 5:32 . . . . . . Sniper kills 14 on Arizona campus . . . . . . and then, as the rails of the inbound train begin their song, he lowers himself to the tracks, walks across to the other side, hoists himself onto the platform, and waits.

END