Train Ride
The train leaves on time which is amazing. The train never leaves on time. But it does today. I am thoroughly excited.
I have my own seat. Seats are big. Big enough, at least, and the one next to me is unbelievably empty. I could put my backpack on it if I wanted, but by leaving it on the floor I can appreciate just how empty the seat really is. No creepy old man to keep me company. There's always a creepy old man to keep me company. But there isn't today. I am thoroughly excited.
I don't even know what to do. I always used to just sit awkwardly, focusing on keeping my hands on my lap as I try not to jab Creepy Old Man with my elbows. He never liked it when I would jab him with my elbows. He would never tell me, but he would scoot over just so slightly an grunt as to let me know that he was not pleased. Creepy Old Man was never pleased when I would jab him with my elbows. I am so glad Creepy Old Man didn't make the trip today.
We're already stopping. A short black woman is running down the aisle yelling that singles may have to sit together because a lot of groups are getting onboard the next few stops. I eyeball the man sitting alone across the aisle. Who wears plaid shirts? I wore plaid shirts in sixth grade. That man is most certainly not in the sixth grade. The black woman runs back in the other direction reminding us that singles may need to share. I look away from Plaid Shirt Man and move my backpack onto the seat next to me.
A woman boards, begins to move her stuff so she can sit in the chair behind me. She is talking to the black woman. Her voice is pretty. She sounds like she's 17 but talks like she's 35. I split the difference and decide she's 26. I haven't looked at her yet, but if she is as pretty as her voice sounds, that would be exceptionally pretty. I can't think of any reason to look backwards. I don't want to be obvious.
I glance across the aisle. Plaid Shirt is staring at Pretty Voice. Oh jesus... it seems Plaid Shirt has taken on the role of Creepy Old too... At least he's across the aisle.
I frown at him. He is still staring at Pretty Voice.
I hear her sit down and I am overwhelmed with the urge to turn around and talk to her. It would be cute. I could put my chin on the back of my chair and smile. She would smile back and we would talk about fun things like finger painting and chocolate. I at least want to peek back between the seats and try and see her face. But that is currently Plaid Shirt's job. He won't stop looking at her. Go back to your cards, Plaid Shirt. There are lots of fun games to play with cards. Staring at Pretty Voice is not one of them. That is not a card game at all.
I want to talk to her so bad...
I hear Black Woman over the intercom. I wish I had a better name for her, but frankly her blackness is all I know about her. That and she is a woman. And she talked to Pretty Voice. Lucky...
Over the intercom, Black Woman Who Has Talked To Pretty Voice lets the train know the lounge is open. I'm not hungry.
But I get a brainstorm.
If I go to the lounge and buy a soda or cookie (or both if I feel particularly frivolous) on the way back to my seat I can sneak a peek at Pretty Voice. That would be most excellent.
I precede to do so. I move slowly so Pretty Voice doesn't see right through my ruse. I must not look too rushed. It is only a soda (and possibly a cookie) after all.
Maybe I can turn around and ask her if she'd like anything. She wouldn't, of course. But she'd smile at me and thank me for asking. I would let her know she was most certainly welcome anytime. Which she would be. And is.
A fat smelly guy stands in front of me buying an unhealthy amount of food from Black Woman Who Has Talked To Pretty Voice. I hate them both. Fatso Stinko because he is making my nostrils want to quit their job, and Black Woman Who Has Talked To Pretty Voice because, well... she's talked to Pretty Voice.
Why haven't I talked to Pretty Voice yet?
Black Woman Who Has Talked To Pretty Voice gets mad at me when I only have a twenty. Pepsi only costs $1.25, I guess.
As I'm walking up the stairs I think about Pretty Voice. What could she possibly look like? Probably astoundingly gorgeous. She has the voice of an angel. It would be super cool if she had wings.
If she has wings I'm definitely talking to her. I'd have an easy enough conversation starter staring at me, at least, in the form of two huge wings.
Her wings would definitely be huge. And gorgeous. Just like her voice.
I get to the top of the stairs and pause to breathe. I must slow down else I scare her off.
I'm practically tip-toeing down the aisle.
Plaid Shirt's sleeping with headphones on.
Pretty Voice is gone.
So are her bags.
How did this happen? Was I really gone for that long? She'll be back. She will certainly be back. But why did she take her bags? I didn't even get to see what she looked like. Maybe I could ask Plaid Shirt. He stared at her for way too long. But he's sleeping... and I don't think I want to talk to him in the first place. He might... creep on me.
I look back at her seat.
Yup... it's definitely empty...
And to think... I was in love...
I have my own seat. Seats are big. Big enough, at least, and the one next to me is unbelievably empty. I could put my backpack on it if I wanted, but by leaving it on the floor I can appreciate just how empty the seat really is. No creepy old man to keep me company. There's always a creepy old man to keep me company. But there isn't today. I am thoroughly excited.
I don't even know what to do. I always used to just sit awkwardly, focusing on keeping my hands on my lap as I try not to jab Creepy Old Man with my elbows. He never liked it when I would jab him with my elbows. He would never tell me, but he would scoot over just so slightly an grunt as to let me know that he was not pleased. Creepy Old Man was never pleased when I would jab him with my elbows. I am so glad Creepy Old Man didn't make the trip today.
We're already stopping. A short black woman is running down the aisle yelling that singles may have to sit together because a lot of groups are getting onboard the next few stops. I eyeball the man sitting alone across the aisle. Who wears plaid shirts? I wore plaid shirts in sixth grade. That man is most certainly not in the sixth grade. The black woman runs back in the other direction reminding us that singles may need to share. I look away from Plaid Shirt Man and move my backpack onto the seat next to me.
A woman boards, begins to move her stuff so she can sit in the chair behind me. She is talking to the black woman. Her voice is pretty. She sounds like she's 17 but talks like she's 35. I split the difference and decide she's 26. I haven't looked at her yet, but if she is as pretty as her voice sounds, that would be exceptionally pretty. I can't think of any reason to look backwards. I don't want to be obvious.
I glance across the aisle. Plaid Shirt is staring at Pretty Voice. Oh jesus... it seems Plaid Shirt has taken on the role of Creepy Old too... At least he's across the aisle.
I frown at him. He is still staring at Pretty Voice.
I hear her sit down and I am overwhelmed with the urge to turn around and talk to her. It would be cute. I could put my chin on the back of my chair and smile. She would smile back and we would talk about fun things like finger painting and chocolate. I at least want to peek back between the seats and try and see her face. But that is currently Plaid Shirt's job. He won't stop looking at her. Go back to your cards, Plaid Shirt. There are lots of fun games to play with cards. Staring at Pretty Voice is not one of them. That is not a card game at all.
I want to talk to her so bad...
I hear Black Woman over the intercom. I wish I had a better name for her, but frankly her blackness is all I know about her. That and she is a woman. And she talked to Pretty Voice. Lucky...
Over the intercom, Black Woman Who Has Talked To Pretty Voice lets the train know the lounge is open. I'm not hungry.
But I get a brainstorm.
If I go to the lounge and buy a soda or cookie (or both if I feel particularly frivolous) on the way back to my seat I can sneak a peek at Pretty Voice. That would be most excellent.
I precede to do so. I move slowly so Pretty Voice doesn't see right through my ruse. I must not look too rushed. It is only a soda (and possibly a cookie) after all.
Maybe I can turn around and ask her if she'd like anything. She wouldn't, of course. But she'd smile at me and thank me for asking. I would let her know she was most certainly welcome anytime. Which she would be. And is.
A fat smelly guy stands in front of me buying an unhealthy amount of food from Black Woman Who Has Talked To Pretty Voice. I hate them both. Fatso Stinko because he is making my nostrils want to quit their job, and Black Woman Who Has Talked To Pretty Voice because, well... she's talked to Pretty Voice.
Why haven't I talked to Pretty Voice yet?
Black Woman Who Has Talked To Pretty Voice gets mad at me when I only have a twenty. Pepsi only costs $1.25, I guess.
As I'm walking up the stairs I think about Pretty Voice. What could she possibly look like? Probably astoundingly gorgeous. She has the voice of an angel. It would be super cool if she had wings.
If she has wings I'm definitely talking to her. I'd have an easy enough conversation starter staring at me, at least, in the form of two huge wings.
Her wings would definitely be huge. And gorgeous. Just like her voice.
I get to the top of the stairs and pause to breathe. I must slow down else I scare her off.
I'm practically tip-toeing down the aisle.
Plaid Shirt's sleeping with headphones on.
Pretty Voice is gone.
So are her bags.
How did this happen? Was I really gone for that long? She'll be back. She will certainly be back. But why did she take her bags? I didn't even get to see what she looked like. Maybe I could ask Plaid Shirt. He stared at her for way too long. But he's sleeping... and I don't think I want to talk to him in the first place. He might... creep on me.
I look back at her seat.
Yup... it's definitely empty...
And to think... I was in love...
posted by AHaynes at 4:39 AM
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