|
The 1 Train
He travels early, before a vast sea of commuters rise en masse, wave after wave infiltrating subways with claustrophobic contamination. He avoids these people. They bear expressions of grim resilience. They wear oversized headphones that blare aggressive punk beats. They clutch Starbucks to-go cups.
His eyes glaze over. Far away he hears a high pitched buzzing sound. It’s like a thirsty mosquito, he thinks. Thoughts float, merge and vanish, pulled into an ever-deepening vacuum. As he sleeps the carriages drift lethargically, propelling forward with jagged movements into the gaping yawns of dark holes. A newspaper withers and settles with somnambulant finality across the confines of his lap. Doors open and footsteps enter. Shiny leather shoes and teetering heels.
“I don’t see why I be up early just because you go. I could sleep for more time.”
The owner of the heels is sighing and petulant. Her words are clipped and proud. She’s Eastern European.
“What if you overslept? Linda might find you in her bed!”
She’s young. Bottle blond tresses run past slim shoulders to collect near the small mounds faintly outlined beneath a hot pink raincoat. The heels are shamelessly high. The tan stockings are cheap. The face is smudged with make-up, a hangover from the previous night. He’s twice her age and predictably conservative; pinstriped suit, crisp white shirt, royal blue tie. Wealth and success are long-time allies of his.
Mark shifts uncomfortably as they kiss. He is an intruder, the third party in their private boudoir.
“Maybe it’s time she know,” the woman pouts. Her poor grasp of English is endearing, adorable.
“We’ve been through this.” He draws her in for a chaste kiss. “It’s my stop. Be good.”
Who is Linda? Mark searches for the inevitable: the gleaming silver band and sees a brief flash of green drop into her hands. The man goes. She stands by the doors like a loyal lover and then draws out the wad, counting it with a dull concentration that’s distasteful to him.
He’s momentarily transported to a generic hotel room, bodies sliding and colluding atop crisp white sheets. He can’t remember the last time he and Cecilia… But lust always has a departure date. His eyes sweep across the carriage and She peers into a mirror and dabs powder onto sleepy eyelids with the silent stoical vigor of a field laborer. It reminds Mark of his student days when Cecilia would sit nude and cross-legged on his bed and apply make-up.
“You cover up your face before your body.”
“I guess my body’s on strike and wants to stay here,” Cecilia said, laughing. His bed felt cold and empty as soon as she departed.
The woman draws out gold chains. They fall into a metallic bundle against her pale neck. She slides rings onto slender fingers. The steady movement reminds him of Cecilia. That same motion. Rings sliding onto fingers. He asked what she was doing one time, watching her from the doorway of their bedroom and she turned round and laughed breathlessly, telling him she removed her jewelry for yoga and what did he want for dinner? He shrugged because it made no difference. The groceries had already been bought.
A crackly intercom announces the next stop is Wall Street, his stop. The woman glances up and smiles. For a brief flickering moment he smiles. A defiant image flashes up. A strangled noise emerges from somewhere. The back of his throat perhaps.
“There was no mat,” the words come in staggered, guttural breaths. “She always used to carry a mat to class but she stopped.”
He stares at the rings on the lady’s fingers until the doors open and she slips out.
Hannah Sloane moved to New York four years ago from London. She has also been published in Defenestration, Freerange Nonfiction, Monkeybicycle, Mr Beller's Neighborhood, Nerve and Unreality House and she has an upcoming piece in The Big Jewel. She is currently editing her first novel.
Email: Hannah Sloane
Return to Table of Contents
|
