The Dance

If walls could talk, I would speak to you a thousand times over a thousand nights. I would tell you to take two steps back instead of one step forward.

I met you at eleven-oh-four on a Sunday night. I remember because the eleven-oh-one train was three minutes late, which was unusual, as it was supposed to be seven minutes late. A few weekend stragglers blinked the bleariness from their eyes as the train ambled to a stop.

The doors hissed open, as they always do. The people boarded, as they always do. The train took off, as it always does, leaving me alone under Fifth Ave.

But you were with me.

You leaned against me, pressing your forehead into my tiles between the V and the E. I felt a startling intimacy with you in that moment. We shared a secret, a story. I didn’t understand it yet.

Before the next train arrived – a proper six minutes late this time – you stepped away from me. Heels clacked on concrete, carrying you closer to the edge. You stood on the yellow line, staring down at the tracks, and I wished you would come back to me.

You chickened out. You left, hustling up the stairs that returned you to the city. I thought little of it.

Then you came back. Every night that week, you walked into my station with a thin black cardigan and no phone. The people always stared at their phones. You stared at the people, and as they left, you stared at the tracks again. But first, you would lean on me.

Forehead, shoulders, right foot propped up in patient nonchalance. The elements varied, but our communion remained. I was your buffer, your transition point from the bright city to the yellow line.

You whispered prayers for the other passengers – that they would keep coming into the station, that they wouldn’t leave you alone. The people never answered. Every night you’d find yourself stepping forward, bracing yourself on that yellow line. Your head jerked toward the tunnel entrance, waiting for the train.

I wanted to tell you that you weren’t alone. I was with you, especially at the end.

Months passed. Not every night, but most nights, we’d commune in silence before you approached the edge. I’d scream. You’d pretend not to hear me.

Then you fell in love. I could tell because you stopped attending our ritual. Dates with another human being took precedence. I wasn’t offended; I was just happy you’d found someone you could hear.

He was nice. Brilliant smile, caring eyes, strong hands. You both came through once a week, Friday nights, for the six-thirteen train. You’d arrive right on time, because the train was late and you could lean on me as he shared his dreams with you. What dreams they were, filled with soaring melodies and rhapsodic ideas, borne on righteous fervor. He was a world-changer, a philosopher in the subway, and you drank in his thoughts as he drank in your lips.

It was beautiful, at first.

Things changed. The station closed for a month. Workers in orange vests replaced the stained concrete floors with gleaming ceramic. In the glow of fluorescent lights, in the reflections on the virgin tile, I felt positively naked. The workers didn’t even both to clean the dust from my surface when they finished.

When the station reopened, when the people flooded in, something was different.

A month was little more than a moment, in my estimation. I measured in sights, not seconds, and in the connections I forged with passing souls like yours. I missed you, but when you came back, part of you had been left behind.

No one else saw it. But I knew you.

You carried more than your purse, dear. You carried bags and bruises. You tried to hide them under layers of foundation and long sleeves, and that may have worked for human eyes, but I saw differently. I noticed the sulk in your eyes, the resignation of returning to the six-thirteen train on Friday nights. I perceived the bent of your back, the tenderness of your forearms as you shifted your purse to the crook of your elbow. I felt the electricity as he grazed your spine with his thumb. The current that once drew you toward him now drew a primal flinch from the muscles in your back.

Life beat you down enough. He shouldn’t have joined in.

No longer did you lean on me. You stood rigid and straight by the metal girders, two steps from the yellow line. He stood with you, tracing gentle circles in the fabric of your cardigan. In the sea of strangers, you were alone again. Worse than alone; you were caged.

Your toes danced on the edge of the yellow line. The rest of your body stood paralyzed, but your toes betrayed your mind. They wanted to fly, to escape your world and dive into the gap, anticipating the headlights and the freedom they offered.

Lies consumed you. Your heart believed he would change. Your head believed you deserved it. Your toes believed the train would save you.

One Friday, you didn’t show. I feared the worst.

Two nights later, you appeared in time to miss the eleven-oh-one. I waited for your embrace. Instead, you hugged the line, feet hanging over the edge, daring providence to stop you.

I screamed for you to move back. My fingers, if I’d had them, would have reached for you. My heartbeat, if I’d had one, would have burst against my ribs, thumping in double-time with yours.

You took one step over the edge.

Then your foot came down on the yellow line. You stepped back. Then back again.

As the train eased to a stop, you fell away from the tracks. As the doors hissed open, you turned to leave. As the witnesses passed by, you brushed your fingers against me once, whether in farewell or thanks I could not say.

I never saw you again, but I still remember the dance. One step forward, two steps back. The cycle lured you to the edge, then away, teetering forever on the brink of surrender.

But you did not surrender.

Wherever you are, I hope you’re happy. I hope you learned a different dance. And on the nights when the pull seems irresistible, you can always come back to me. I enjoy your company.