TrainWrite

The Train Writer

by Karen Eileen Sikola

She wrote about a boy named Federico, or Giovanni, and how she noticed him and his brown hair just as closing time came around.

She held her phone with banana slug fingers, her thumbs flying feverishly across the face of a virtual keyboard. She sat forward in the seat next to mine, just far enough for me to read each new sentence without notice. Occasionally she would stop to glance over at a man perpetually sweeping hair out of his eyes.

I wondered if she could smell the egg and cheese biscuit in my purse, if her next sentence would be about how Federico only liked girls with skinny wrists who ate McDonald’s in secret and drank Diet Coke.

When the train stopped, she put her phone away and got up. Excuse me, excuse me. She mumbled it breathlessly, she and the others turning their bodies in ways that allowed her to exit.

I watched her follow the man with sweeping brown hair to the foot of the stairs. She stopped and watched him ascend, contemplating, then turned around and walked toward the escalator.

Notes

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