The Last Train

The platform was empty except for a woman sitting on a bench, looking at a book without reading it. He knew this because she hadn’t turned a page in ten minutes.

He sat on the other side of the bench. Not too close, not too far. The distance you choose when you want to be alone but don’t want to look lonely.

“The train is delayed,” she said without looking up.

“I know,” he said. “I’m not waiting for the train.”

She looked up. For the first time, he saw her eyes. They were gray, like the sky above the station, and just as hard to read.

“What then?”

He thought about it. It was a simple question with a complicated answer. Or a complicated question with a simple answer. He wasn’t sure.

“For knowing where to go,” he said finally.

She nodded as if it were the most reasonable answer in the world. Then she closed the book and stood up.

“The train is coming,” she said.

He heard nothing. No rattling, no whistle. But then, quietly, it drew closer. She had been right.

“Will you get on?” she asked.

He saw the train. He saw the open door. He saw the woman with the gray eyes, who didn’t wait for his answer but stepped in.

The doors closed. The train departed.

He was still sitting on the bench. But now he knew where to go.