Sunday at the Station
I
It was a Sunday morning of the week before spring; the days were long and dense with the promise of rain, the birds were beginning to recall their old songs, and no passerby walked with heels unkissed by the wind. It was early still—the sun had not yet arisen above the tiled roofs and awnings that lined these outskirts of the city; the moon clung in waning profile to the reddening clouds—and few people save myself were waiting at the train station. A small flock of businessmen, crows with briefcases and felt hats, surfaced and submerged again into the blue morning mist; somewhere behind the rusting and dew-glazed bench on which I sat, a woman hushed her child. The street lamps that lined the rails, unsnuffed yet from the night before, cast their yellow light onto the moss that curled up their wrought iron poles, onto the planted trees’ young and pale buds.
I, too, was pale, if not young. I was unmarried, childless—my mother reminded me daily out of fear for my failing memory, the lone bedroom of my apartment reminded me nightly out of its own, claustrophobic fear of vacancy; lace curtains curling upward over unfurnished hardwood floors, half-written letters tumbling like waterfalls from overturned waste baskets. I was unemployed—I had worked before only as a traveling saleswoman, making my home of these trains for more nights that I was able to count—and perhaps it was some sense of nostalgia that brought me then to the terminal. The trains darted like infinite, screaming fish from the mist and the tunnels.
A man, about my age, was pushing his way through the turnstile; the gate shrieked in protest as he passed through it, and I was jolted from my reverie. He was dressed as if he were on his way to a wedding—his face was shaded beneath a wide-brimmed hat and he wore a painstakingly tailored suit; a pastel tie hung from his neck, and a matching handkerchief billowed outward from his jacket’s pocket. He bent forward as he walked, though he carried no bags, and his patent leather shoes scuffed along the tile. He lifted his head briefly to look around the platform—he was clean shaven, his eyes were the same color as the mist behind wire-framed glasses, and a curl of black hair hung forward from underneath his hat. He was handsome, in the way that a hand-written letter was handsome: ink smudged by the thousand strokes of a wrist and the unwavering press of a blistering thumb.
The sun broke over the rooftops—the tiles melted into a pool of orange, embers erupted along the branches of the trees, and a passing train exhaled a smoking orchid. My gaze was pulled from him for a moment as the last echoes of its whistle crested against my ears, and, when my eyes refocused, I found him sitting next to me. I was caught by surprise—the station was still all but empty, a line of unoccupied benches stretched yet beside the rails—and I jumped.
“I’m so sorry, miss.”—he said. He seemed as taken aback as I was by his capacity to startle me so. His face was soft, unwrinkled, and void of expression—in fact, I had never seen someone appear so calm—and I stared at him for several seconds, half perturbed and half admiring, before replying.
“Please, don’t be. You just caught me unawares.”
We sat in silence for several minutes. He was thinly built, scarcely broader than the trees that lined the railway or even the rails themselves, yet he breathed heavily from the top of his chest, as if he had run here from miles away. His legs were crossed away from me; his hands lay folded in his lap, though I could see that they were stained heavily with blue ink. The press of unspoken words thickened the air between us, and I felt warm despite the morning chill.
“Beautiful sunrise today.”—I sighed, feebly. He turned toward me, his eyes widening slightly as though he had forgotten I were there, and he nodded.
“My name is Gabriel.”—he said. I told him mine, he nodded again, and I extended a hand toward him. He contemplated it for a moment—I thought, stupidly, that it had been foolish of me to neglect polishing my nails—he placed his hand beneath mine, lifted it quickly to his lips, and kissed it along the furrow between two fingers. I flushed—I was unaccustomed to such gestures.
“I’m waiting on the forty-two into the city.”—he said, either not seeing my face redden or ignoring it out of chivalry. My mind lingered against my will on the love stories I had suffered at the hands of my mother’s friends; they cackled through creased lips as they bragged about their daughters’ husbands, each more fabulously wealthy and angelically handsome than the last; I cringed at the thought of their brides’ glowing, pregnant smiles.
“So am I.”—My neck was craned toward him as I lied. In my years aboard these trains, I had never seen one bearing that number and doubted that one existed.
“Do you have business there?”
“If one considers dealing with family to be work. I’m visiting my mother.”—I lied again.
“And your husband is leaving you to suffer so alone?” I showed him my ringless hand; he nodded in feigned understanding, smiling slightly, and showed me his own. I thought of a child, a girl, in a blue dress trimmed with white lace: she spun in awkward pirouettes through the station, holding a ceramic doll at an arm’s length before her, singing softly as she danced down the tracks; her feet shuffled like mice through autumn leaves.
“And you?”—I asked. He paused for a moment.
“I’ve always wanted to live in the city. I hear it’s full of fools who never sleep.”
“Perhaps that’s because of the noise.”
“Are the trains really so different?” The smile vanished entirely from his face for an instant; he stared at me, through me, down the tracks, and I shivered in the breeze.
“Perhaps…” We sat in silence for several minutes more.
A whistle sounded like thunder and birdsong from within the mist, an overture, and he lifted his head to greet the oncoming train. She was red and liquid and rippling and she shook the platform though she was yet some unfathomable distance off; she was a school of fish and a flock of crows; she was fire and wind and water; she was a cavalry devoid of riders in full gallop across the field, and she sung with trumpets and lightning and endless clouds of red steam. She neared us now; the number 42 was emblazoned across her engine in curling script lifted from some illuminated novel, and the fog curled its fingers through the spokes of her wheels. He stood up, smiling, his glasses catching the glint of the rising sun, the train’s reflection streaming forward from his eyes, and he pulled me up with him by both of my hands.
“Isn’t she beautiful?”—he asked, holding me between himself and the rails. I did not know how to answer save for staring further with him. The train bore down on the terminal now, and the businessmen ravens all looked up from their newspapers, the child behind me hushed himself or was drowned out by the fanfare. The 42 showed no sign of slowing down; she ran towards the city that waited for her with bated breath and opened arms. He led me now closer to the tracks, his eyes wide and glowing—the child of my dream was laughing behind him, spinning, her bows trailing behind her like the steam of the engine. Finally, the train began to slow; steel sung against steel, another blast from the whistle; it was feet from us now—I would go with him, I would go with Gabriel, we would move to the city and become fools who never slept, and in some few short years this child would dance through the halls of our home—I could taste it, I could hear her laughter louder than ever.
“I am truly sorry, miss.”—said Gabriel, as the train closed the last feet before us, still moving with the force and speed of a breaking dam. He let go of my hand, smiling, and fell down toward the rails below as the train shot past—he disappeared, warmth splashed across my face, red on my skirt; my hand was empty; he was a red stain on the tracks below.
I opened my mouth, tasted his blood, and heard no sound but the scream of steel on steel.
I, too, was pale, if not young. I was unmarried, childless—my mother reminded me daily out of fear for my failing memory, the lone bedroom of my apartment reminded me nightly out of its own, claustrophobic fear of vacancy; lace curtains curling upward over unfurnished hardwood floors, half-written letters tumbling like waterfalls from overturned waste baskets. I was unemployed—I had worked before only as a traveling saleswoman, making my home of these trains for more nights that I was able to count—and perhaps it was some sense of nostalgia that brought me then to the terminal. The trains darted like infinite, screaming fish from the mist and the tunnels.
A man, about my age, was pushing his way through the turnstile; the gate shrieked in protest as he passed through it, and I was jolted from my reverie. He was dressed as if he were on his way to a wedding—his face was shaded beneath a wide-brimmed hat and he wore a painstakingly tailored suit; a pastel tie hung from his neck, and a matching handkerchief billowed outward from his jacket’s pocket. He bent forward as he walked, though he carried no bags, and his patent leather shoes scuffed along the tile. He lifted his head briefly to look around the platform—he was clean shaven, his eyes were the same color as the mist behind wire-framed glasses, and a curl of black hair hung forward from underneath his hat. He was handsome, in the way that a hand-written letter was handsome: ink smudged by the thousand strokes of a wrist and the unwavering press of a blistering thumb.
The sun broke over the rooftops—the tiles melted into a pool of orange, embers erupted along the branches of the trees, and a passing train exhaled a smoking orchid. My gaze was pulled from him for a moment as the last echoes of its whistle crested against my ears, and, when my eyes refocused, I found him sitting next to me. I was caught by surprise—the station was still all but empty, a line of unoccupied benches stretched yet beside the rails—and I jumped.
“I’m so sorry, miss.”—he said. He seemed as taken aback as I was by his capacity to startle me so. His face was soft, unwrinkled, and void of expression—in fact, I had never seen someone appear so calm—and I stared at him for several seconds, half perturbed and half admiring, before replying.
“Please, don’t be. You just caught me unawares.”
We sat in silence for several minutes. He was thinly built, scarcely broader than the trees that lined the railway or even the rails themselves, yet he breathed heavily from the top of his chest, as if he had run here from miles away. His legs were crossed away from me; his hands lay folded in his lap, though I could see that they were stained heavily with blue ink. The press of unspoken words thickened the air between us, and I felt warm despite the morning chill.
“Beautiful sunrise today.”—I sighed, feebly. He turned toward me, his eyes widening slightly as though he had forgotten I were there, and he nodded.
“My name is Gabriel.”—he said. I told him mine, he nodded again, and I extended a hand toward him. He contemplated it for a moment—I thought, stupidly, that it had been foolish of me to neglect polishing my nails—he placed his hand beneath mine, lifted it quickly to his lips, and kissed it along the furrow between two fingers. I flushed—I was unaccustomed to such gestures.
“I’m waiting on the forty-two into the city.”—he said, either not seeing my face redden or ignoring it out of chivalry. My mind lingered against my will on the love stories I had suffered at the hands of my mother’s friends; they cackled through creased lips as they bragged about their daughters’ husbands, each more fabulously wealthy and angelically handsome than the last; I cringed at the thought of their brides’ glowing, pregnant smiles.
“So am I.”—My neck was craned toward him as I lied. In my years aboard these trains, I had never seen one bearing that number and doubted that one existed.
“Do you have business there?”
“If one considers dealing with family to be work. I’m visiting my mother.”—I lied again.
“And your husband is leaving you to suffer so alone?” I showed him my ringless hand; he nodded in feigned understanding, smiling slightly, and showed me his own. I thought of a child, a girl, in a blue dress trimmed with white lace: she spun in awkward pirouettes through the station, holding a ceramic doll at an arm’s length before her, singing softly as she danced down the tracks; her feet shuffled like mice through autumn leaves.
“And you?”—I asked. He paused for a moment.
“I’ve always wanted to live in the city. I hear it’s full of fools who never sleep.”
“Perhaps that’s because of the noise.”
“Are the trains really so different?” The smile vanished entirely from his face for an instant; he stared at me, through me, down the tracks, and I shivered in the breeze.
“Perhaps…” We sat in silence for several minutes more.
A whistle sounded like thunder and birdsong from within the mist, an overture, and he lifted his head to greet the oncoming train. She was red and liquid and rippling and she shook the platform though she was yet some unfathomable distance off; she was a school of fish and a flock of crows; she was fire and wind and water; she was a cavalry devoid of riders in full gallop across the field, and she sung with trumpets and lightning and endless clouds of red steam. She neared us now; the number 42 was emblazoned across her engine in curling script lifted from some illuminated novel, and the fog curled its fingers through the spokes of her wheels. He stood up, smiling, his glasses catching the glint of the rising sun, the train’s reflection streaming forward from his eyes, and he pulled me up with him by both of my hands.
“Isn’t she beautiful?”—he asked, holding me between himself and the rails. I did not know how to answer save for staring further with him. The train bore down on the terminal now, and the businessmen ravens all looked up from their newspapers, the child behind me hushed himself or was drowned out by the fanfare. The 42 showed no sign of slowing down; she ran towards the city that waited for her with bated breath and opened arms. He led me now closer to the tracks, his eyes wide and glowing—the child of my dream was laughing behind him, spinning, her bows trailing behind her like the steam of the engine. Finally, the train began to slow; steel sung against steel, another blast from the whistle; it was feet from us now—I would go with him, I would go with Gabriel, we would move to the city and become fools who never slept, and in some few short years this child would dance through the halls of our home—I could taste it, I could hear her laughter louder than ever.
“I am truly sorry, miss.”—said Gabriel, as the train closed the last feet before us, still moving with the force and speed of a breaking dam. He let go of my hand, smiling, and fell down toward the rails below as the train shot past—he disappeared, warmth splashed across my face, red on my skirt; my hand was empty; he was a red stain on the tracks below.
I opened my mouth, tasted his blood, and heard no sound but the scream of steel on steel.