#68
I knew I’d be late. The platform was full and the train was delayed. I hoped she didn’t think bad of me, but I knew it would be a check in the wrong box.
Text message: I’m late. Maybe 15 minutes.
Her: as usual.
She thought bad of me, I knew it.
On the train I held on to a pole, while I held my paperback open with my other hand. Turning the page on the long straight stretches of track, so I didn’t tip over onto the passengers who were sitting. I stepped on a woman’s foot, and my shoulder was up against a backpack with something pointy in it.
When the doors open, a stream of fresh air enters, spring air, new air, sweet air, and then it snaps shut and it’s all body odors. Hairspray. Deodorant. Shoes. Sweat. Oily faces, end of day faces, tired faces.
Text message: I’m waiting outside the station.
I had hoped she would be wearing the polka-dot scarf and the boots that I love so much. I have such little to look forward to anymore, this dinner was the highlight of my week.
I stepped out of the train, the platform here was quiet, night was falling, and the village where we were headed could be seen in the distance as the mist started to settle. I arrived a slightly different version of my self - journeys do that.
At the end of the passageway I could just make out her silhouette, the shape of her torso, the tension in which she stood, knowing that we would be late. She saw me approaching and walked toward me with stern movements.
She kissed my cheek.
Her: you’re just in time.
Me: it’s nice to see you.