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Bob feels the train's screeching stop on his teeth. The doors slide open,
bringing with them that roasting hot dog smell of downtown Manhattan. Bob
spreads his laptop and trench coat over the two seats beside him. When he
spots her making her way onto the train, he drapes the trench over his knees
and opens his laptop.
She nods. Bob nods. She sits down and lets her handbag fall between them.
For a brief instant, their sleeves rub together as she shrugs and wiggles
her way out of her coat. The drum of Bob's heart fills his ears and flushes
out the rattling of steel as they leave the station. He shakes his head,
but his pulse only seems to grow louder. "It's a sign of high blood
pressure," the doctor said. "It's time you thought about retiring."
"Dear Loretta," Bob taps out on his laptop. "Your perfume drifts over me
like a breeze on a spring morning."
The sway of the car drifts with his thoughts, snaking to the right and left,
to his past and present, winding its way around corners, and heading toward
his future. It's just another day in another week for the people around
him. And today, their indifference makes him itch. Words are caught in his
throat. He wonders how he might evoke the unusually wet weather they've
been having without frightening them into the next car.
He watches the dingy city view being dragged away from him in the window.
The skyline is soon replaced with the rooftops and shopping malls of
suburbia.
Loretta keeps her eyes on her hands, and her thumb caresses the strap of her
handbag. She is wearing his favorite dress, the one with layers of sheer
fabric that remind him of prom dates and flower girls. Each time she
adjusts her position, the skirt whispers to him, singing those familiar
what-ifs that work him like up-tempo lullabies.
He feels the pull of the train as it slows before the Hawthorne stop. It's
his last chance. Loretta will get off at Mount Kisco in a quarter of an
hour. She'll exit the train and his life. But if he turns to her and tells
her that she was almost responsible for his divorce, she'll wallop him with
her bag.
"Who's Loretta?" his wife asked him several years ago. He wished and wishes
he knew. Thirty-five years ago she walked onto Bob's train. He was a young
executive with aspirations for a vice presidency, a brand new split level
house, a toddler, and a wife he thought he'd love forever. Loretta made all
that seem mundane.
"Your sighs tickle my neck and move down my spine, paralyzing me," he types.
The train pulls into Chappaqua. People shuffle off. Silently, he bids the
familiar faces farewell as they step through the door and disappear. Will
they notice his absence tomorrow? Will Loretta?
They're a station away from separation. The throb in his ears accelerates.
He flips his laptop closed.
"Isn't it funny?" he says.
She flinches. Her grip on her shoulder strap tightens. There's a rustling
across from him as a woman dives further into her fashion magazine. Bob
clears his throat.
"We share a ride twice a day, five days a week, for an entire career and
never take the time to exchange more than a nod?"
They face each other for the first time. The wrinkles around her eyes
deepen, and he imagines her thoughts — she is hesitating, wondering if she
should be appalled or amused. Bob swallows hard.
"I feel like I know you," he says, and almost adds Loretta. "But I don't
even know your name."
"Betty," she tells him and is about to add something when she is cut off by
the conductor.
"Kisco! Mount Kisco Station!"
"Good-bye, Betty. It's been a pleasure commuting with you."
She nods and smiles, then gets off the train.
Bob opens his laptop again. "Good-bye, Loretta," he types.
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