On the Aisle

Dear Diary:

I was in a window seat aboard a train bound for Port Washington that had been sitting in Penn Station for a while. I was alone in the car. My consciousness had thinned into a 1 a.m. gossamer. I knew I wouldn’t be reading the book I had with me.

She floated down the aisle just before the doors closed and halted in front of me. Judging by the faraway look in her eyes, she might as well have been dreaming already.

Without a word, she stuck her ticket into the back of the seat on the aisle of the row I was in. She slumped down, resting her head on her folded arms in the seat between us.

I sat wooden in my seat, not knowing whether to even breathe. She stayed silent until the conductor came for our tickets. When she spoke, it was barely more than a whisper.

“Wake me before Manhasset, please,” she said.

I mumbled something back and tried to busy myself with my book. As expected, it was a lost cause.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her tiny frame rise and fall with each silent breath. She looked to be around 23, certainly not older than my 26. I wondered whether I should be worried for her. I didn’t know her, after all. But I worry over everything.

I woke her as the train pulled out of Great Neck.

“What time is it?” she asked.

Not too late, I said.

When I woke up, the train was stopped at Port Washington. The engine was off and the doors were closed.