As I rocked back and forth on the train, I thought that maybe it was time.
My feet were planted firmly in the rubber-coated aisle, my hand gripping the edge of the painfully blue seat. I could feel people all around me... two that I knew, that were as far away as strangers, and I had turned away from them to cry.
The red flowers on my black skirt blurred and ran, mirroring my mascara. I wrapped my fingers around the steel post and held on for dear life.
The woman sitting across the aisle from me pretended not to notice. She had a tattoo of a frowning thundercloud, and she was wearing a tracking-type device strapped to her ankle, and she seemed to flaunt it, dressed in overall shorts and sandals. Her boyfriend didn't seem to care.
In front of me (which should have been behind, but I'd twisted around so far), there were two well-adjusted businesswomen whose conversation made sense only to themselves. They carried backpacks and Tupperware containers, and wore bright cardigans. The young man in a tie, sitting across from them, read the business section of the newspaper and I knew that he was thinking that they'd be working for him someday.
The man with the glass eye stood with his two sons, and they all proudly wore unidentifiable baseball caps... some local team, just won their game, look at us. The elder son tried to catch my eye every time I looked up to the map-- how far until home?-- but I wouldn't let him.
I felt a leg jostle against mine as he dozed, and I moved further away. He was evicting me from the bench, just as he had evicted me from everything that really mattered to me. I didn't want him to touch me, even by accident, because he didn't mean it.
I didn't turn around and look at the seat across from me, because I didn't want to. Another disappointed, angry face. I felt a hot tear slide down my cheek (why were they only coming from my left eye? easier to hide).
A bearded man watched me from far away down the train. Why was such a pretty girl crying?
because she's not a pretty girl sir she's only a failure
Who would ever want to make her cry?
nobody does sir except me
He got off two stops before we did. I was glad. I was tired of answering silent questions.
And I figured maybe it was time.
By myself, living in a tiny loft (four hundred dollars, can I do it?) far above the city street. Or maybe in the Avenues, quiet and somewhat dirty in parts, but... it would be mine. I could live there every night, get a bagel in the morning, ride the train to work, meet a friend for dinner
where would you meet a friend at all, love?
have a corner for my writing, all my own.
Then I could start over, or at least start to forget. Then there would be new faces that didn't know me
well enough to start to dislike what I've become
that only knew my social face, the one that I like best. I could go far enough away. I could grow up.
I could stop answering all those silent questions.