Train Story

Let’s take a trip.
Somewhere romantic, I say.
I’m low on funds, you reply.

The train! The train is romantic.
Is the train cheap?

I rent movies involving trains. Strangers on a Train. Murder on the Orient Express. The Darjeeling Limited. After each movie I take notes on proper train etiquette. Helping old ladies store their bags is a yes, snoring loudly is a no.

Where should we go? I ask over drinks at the end of a workday. You sip your beer and I sip my scotch. They drink scotch in the train movies.

East Coast? Midwest? I delve into my purse and take out the brochures from the Amtrak agent.

I thought you wanted somewhere romantic.

The train is romantic! I reach across the table to take your hand but you wave to the waitress and order another beer.

I forgot my ATM card, can you pick this up?

Of course, I say, fingering my pamphlets. I use them as a Chinese fan to cool myself.


***


We need to choose a date, I say after sex where you cover my eyes with your hands. You sit perched on the edge of the bed, an endangered eagle ready to fly.

I’m fine with whatever you want.

I turn over on my side and pull up a sheet to ward off the cold of your air conditioning.

Next month then. I think it’s just what we need. This trip will save us.

You get up to pee.


***


We leave in two weeks! I grin when I meet you at your office.

I spent the day buying new luggage for our romantic revival. Two pink leather suitcases that cost half my rent. I liked how my reflection looked in them: shiny and rose-tinted.

I can’t go. You put your briefcase down on marble floor. A woman walks by and sneezes.

Why? I think of the luggage in my trunk, price tags still stuck.

You touch my arm to lessen the verbal blow. If I leave now, I worry I’ll lose my job. The company isn’t doing too well.

But, I say. But you said anytime. I bought the tickets.

They are refundable.

That’s not the point. I blink back tears. That’s not the point.

Hey, you say. You kiss my neck for the first time since we met and had sex two years ago. I’m sorry. I really want to take this trip with you. We will go one day.

I shake my head and we get into my car. I drive us home but don’t remember the drive.

That night you sleep. You never dream. I do not sleep, but I dream. I dream of trains passing us by, trains with passengers who think when they see us what a sad, sad sight.