They sat near each other on the train, still pretending to be strangers. They’d been doing the same commute for the last 11 months, but had never spoken a word to each other. She knew he got on two stops before hers, the first stop on the line. Those few times she’d decided to go to the stop before hers, he was already on the train.
He knew that when they disembarked at the Christopher Street station, she always went left toward Hudson Street. His job meant he’d always taken a right heading for Greenwich.
She was certain he owned no more than five dress shirts. While she didn’t see him on the weekends, she hoped he might have something he’d wear to let loose a little. But during the week, no matter the season, he wore a button-down collared shirt. He wore yellow on Mondays, blue and white stripes on Tuesdays, light purple on Wednesdays, black on Thursdays, and the most beautiful deep blue every Friday, which complimented nicely with the piercing aquamarine in his eyes. He’d wear gray or black pants every day except Friday. That’s when the designer jeans made their appearance. At least she assumed they had to be designer jeans.
He cherished the moment she’d get on the train each morning and walk by him leaving an essence of citrus and vanilla. It hung in the air as she’d take the seat across from him. He missed the days she wasn’t there. Sometimes a week or two at a time. But everyone needs a break; a vacation. Even if he knew it was something entirely different.
She felt her heart sink a little when she’d walk on and not see his face. It was rare, but it did happen. When he was there, he always looked up at her as she passed. When she sat, he’d give her a smile before returning to a book he was never without. Typically a John Grisham or Tom Clancy novel, but noticed he’d started bringing on the classics lately. Last week, he was reading Hemingway. She was fascinated by Hemingway. Something about him being exotic and mysterious, living a life she would only ever be able to dream of.
He liked her hair even if it was always neatly, maybe a little too, pulled back in a low ponytail or bun at the nape of her neck. He’d often wondered what it looked like down. Was it curly or straight? Did it matter? Maybe someday he’d find out. She wore make-up, sparingly. She always wore a deep red lipstick that often left marks on the rim of her white coffee lid she sipped from every morning. Maybe it was the one thing he wished she’d change. I bet she looked just as beautiful without the lipstick.
While they had always been on the same 7:40 arrival into Christopher Street Station every weekday morning, they hadn’t always been on the same afternoon one. She would see him in the afternoons occasionally waiting for the train, and somehow, they managed to make it into the same car eventually sitting across from each other as passengers emptied out at various stops along the way. But lately, she hadn’t been seeing him at all in the afternoons. Maybe his job had become more demanding. Maybe he’d taken up a workout regimen. Maybe he was seeing someone in the City and didn’t come back out until much later in the evening. But he didn’t stay over. He was always on the train the next morning.
She didn’t wear a wedding ring because she wasn’t married. Nowhere near married.
He didn’t wear a wedding ring because he wasn’t married. Nowhere near married.
He almost didn’t recognize her when she got on this morning. Her hair was down. Straight. The smell lingering in the air was more fragrant than usual. Her red lipstick was gone. She looked tired. She was wearing casual clothing. A sweatshirt displaying what he assumed might be her alma mater - the University of Minnesota. As she sat, he gave his usual smile. Their eyes locked for a little longer this time. Had she been crying? It was likely given the night she knew she’d had.
She looked down realizing she’d been staring into him, desperate to reach across for a long overdue hug. She was tired. She’d been up most of the night. He’d come again like he threatened he would. It had been months. She’d changed the locks. But he found his way in anyhow. He disgusted her, but she was unable to push him off no matter how much she tried. She’d managed to scratch his face, which only made him that much more angry and that much rougher with her. She was in pain when he finally left sometime early this morning. She was afraid to go to the police. He said he’d be watching and she wouldn’t like the consequences. She wanted so desperately to move. But she’d inherited the house and would have to sell it. She couldn’t afford to go anywhere else. And, worst of all, she wouldn’t see him anymore. This smiling stranger she’d shared the same air space with every morning. She wondered what he’d think of her if he knew what had happened last night. Who she really was and what had really been happening to her. She tried to cover the scent of last night’s misery by taking an extra long shower, dousing herself in half a bottle of soap.
It was a relationship she hadn’t meant to fall into. She had a knack for picking the wrong sort of guy, but in the beginning he’d seemed so charming. When she finally broke it off, she realized that wouldn’t be the end. He’d told her if he can’t have her, no one would. The first few times it happened, he used rope and a knife to keep her subdued. He’d instilled enough fear by this point that she didn’t dare move. She let him do what he would with her knowing he’d eventually go away. But also knowing he’d eventually come back.
She looked up to see him. He was still reading Hemingway. This week it was The Old Man and the Sea. She hadn’t read that one and found herself wanting to ask if she could borrow it when he was done. But what was the use? She didn’t deserve to talk to this man. He didn’t deserve to be dragged into her pathetic, complicated life.
He looked up from his book, pushing his glasses back. They tended to slide down his nose when he looked down. He’d been thinking about buying a new pair for months, but hadn’t gotten around to it. Was it time to tell her the good news? That they finally had the evidence needed to lock him up? Was she aware of everything he had done and why federal agents were involved? He wished they could have helped her sooner, but they didn’t have the right evidence to make a solid case; the part he hated about this line of work given that victims suffer far more and often longer than necessary.
She liked it when he wore his glasses. Despite her feelings toward the male species this morning, he looked more attractive than ever in his deep blue shirt and faded jeans. It was Friday and she wasn’t looking forward to the weekend. She’d have to explain to her boss why she was wearing what she was wearing. The jerk had thrown most of her shirts, all of them, into a pile and urinated. Disgusting pig.
The next stop was Christopher Street. He was tired of this. She needed something this morning, but he wasn’t sure what. He couldn’t blow his cover, but he could at the very least offer some kind words. The train stopped and the doors opened. She exited and turned left. He exited, and without hesitation didn’t take his usual right turn. Today was the day.