Warning: Adult content is obviously included in this story. Please do not read unless you are over 18.
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I used to ride the train for hours alone. The 7:40 pm to Vanguard avenue. The 8:20 to Hollyhock St. The entire night I would sit on the lonely train and look out over the city, the lights of homes, and offices showing like stars through the black window. Sometimes I would ride longer than other times. When the conductor would come on to announce the arriving stop, I wouldn't much pay attention. After all, it didn't really matter where I got off did it? Was I running from something? Was I running to something? Am I just trying to keep my mind occupied? I would ask myself all those questions. I think the latter question was the correct one. I wasn't trying to run from something, and I certainly was riding the train to anywhere in particular. I just liked to sit, and watch things go by. I liked being in my own little world while I didn't think about things, and things didn't think about me.
In my old, regular life I used to be an editor for the Living column in the local newspaper- the largest newspaper in the city actually- and I was married for 5 years I think. Work was what I liked to do. Going through college as an English major, I knew I had to make a choice of career fast, and I certainly didn't want to teach or write. So editing was it. I also would write reviews for a magazine that was produced mainly for movie buffs. The reviewing was mostly a side job, just to keep my mind from being restless. It was also fun to do, and that made it easier to accomplish. My wife had been a complete sweetheart. She was the type of woman you loved to be around, no matter what the reason was. She was an unusual woman, but in all the greatest ways.
Carol was her name wasn't it? Yes. She was beautiful. Long brown hair. Lovely, bright green eyes. Long, smooth legs. She was to die for. And then I almost did, but it didn't turn out the way it should have. Our home was broken in to. Quite an unusual thing to happen for the neighborhood we lived in. The man was startled when Carol woke up to discover him in our room. He had our back turned to us on our bed, rummaging his hands through our dresser. When Carol left out a soft gasp, the man whipped around. Her hand grasped my shoulder and shook my body softly. The man had let out a small yelp, and my hand was already half way to turning the nightstand light on. When I did I noticed the man had a gun already pointed at Carol. His blue eyes showed terror, and inexperience. I raised my hands to protest, and Carol reached for the phone on my side of the bed. When the bullet went through my hand my eyes closed, blood sprayed over my face, and I smelled a small hint of gunpowder. The .22 caliber bullet struck and shattered bone in my hand on its way to another bone, this bone did not shatter, but chipped, and sent the bullet through my palm in a downward trajectory.
After it left my palm, spraying blood over my face, it went right through the back of Carol's upper neck, who had reached over my lap to grab the phone. The bullet entered into her spinal column, and stopped slowly. The next 3 years are a blur. I remember clutching Carol to me, screaming for the ambulance to hurry. I remember flashes of her funeral. Now, all I remember is the train I rode home from her funeral, and how I have ridden the same train around the entire city for the last year and a half.
Through all the long times of riding this train, Carol's death has become numb. While it’s better for her to be forgotten -except for the good things I remember- new feelings have formed after her disappearance from my thoughts. Most of them are not happy feelings, and most of them are not even sane feelings. But the feeling that always strikes the hardest, and the longest, is the loneliness. The longing for someone else hurts the most. The yearning for the ability to merely touch someone could make my heart stop beating all by itself.
And then the weirdest, but greatest, thing happened. One evening I was riding the train as I would usually on any evening of the week, and I happened to turn my head from the window. To a normal person, this would not be a weird thing. But to me it was. And what was even weirder, was the reason why I did turn my head.
Everyone has the strange ability of mild-clairvoyance. But not the type of clairvoyance where you can read people's thoughts. No, not telepathy. The type of clairvoyance when you can feel someone watching you. This type of clairvoyance is what got me to turn my head.
I was on the 7:40PM train to Vanguard avenue. I had been riding the train for close to forty-five minutes already, and for the last twenty minutes or so I could feel a pair of eyes on me from the corner of my eye. From what I could tell, the person was staring directly at me. Usually when I think someone is watching me, I turn my head for a brief moment, and see they really are not even looking in my direction. This time, when I turned my head, I saw a gorgeous woman looking right in my direction. She had her eyes on mine. Normally when you are caught staring at someone, you turn your head again to avoid the person's accusing look. She did not turn my head, and I did not offer an accusing look.
Her eyes were also what made me keep my head turned from the window. They were bright blue, a thousand yards deep. I swear oceans, and lands of another world existed in those eyes. And most people would assume that when someone was staring at you, it was for reasons of concern, or disgust, or curiosity. Her eyes showed none of these. Surprisingly, her eyes reflected the reaction she had to the thoughts I had in my head. They looked almost sorry. She had a look of pity on me. Not pity coming from her thinking she was a better person than I, but pity that showed she knew exactly why I was riding on this train. She knew I came here every night. She knew my heart ached. And I think her heart shared a little bit of its own aching.
Not allowing myself to stare back into her tempting eyes, I offered a small smile and looked down at the ground, instead of the window. I noticed her move from her seat, and she was soon sitting next to me on the dingy train. The horn of the train sounded as it passed another train going in the opposite direction. She had never taken her eyes off me, even when I looked away. He hand came toward me, and her fingertips touched my chin softly, lifting my head to look at her. When I did, her eyes changed. They once showed a look of complete sorrow, and pity. Then they changed to a look of complete understanding, as if she was trying to tell me it was all okay.
Then she smiled. Some smiles can regarded as forced, but her smile came from absolute helplessness to do otherwise. Since smiles are more often than not contagious, I smiled in return to her. Our faces began to change from solemn, remorseful reflections, to rejoicing happiness that we had found each other. I took her hands, and she squeezed mine in return.
When her lips met mine I felt like I was eleven again. When I got my first kiss from a girl named Rebekah, I thought I would was going to yell and sing at the same time. There was a lift-off feeling in my stomach, and I thought I might pass-out from happiness. I got most of the same feelings when I kissed the stranger on the train. It was a short, brief, no-tongue kiss, but it was still nice. The way our lips fit perfectly together was like magic.
