The Girl in Car Seven

It is a normal day, unfortunately. The platform is crowded with weary souls walking fast, hoping to find marginally less full cars farther down. The regional train is deep within the poorly maintained station. The yellow paint on the metal at the edge of the platform is patchy from so many tired souls walking over its surface. The train’s crew members stand in stiff blue shirts and black pants, each an echo of the next a few cars away.

Though it’s so far from the doors, commuters still carry dripping umbrellas, giving the ground an unwelcoming dampness. The platform is usually too warm, but after the unseasonable chill to the early fall rain, it’s welcome. You're so very relieved you didn't wear a skirt today.

Your backpack drags your shoulders down into a slouch as you trudge up the stairs to the train's second level. Your head is swimming on the edge of a headache, a slight discomfort that isn’t yet fully formed pain. You feel too young to live this disciplined way every day, but also too old to chance a less stable job that might actually mean something. And so you trek this long route day in and day out, nearly two hours from door of apartment to door of office.

You step onboard the train and it’s all too familiar. Blue and white plastic everywhere. Harsh lights that make relaxation a joke. It’s impossible to find a solo seat; no, it’s a distant dream of every introvert commuting into the city. But since stairs are the worst enemy of many, your chances of choosing who you sit next to are better up on the higher level. Window seat after window seat is already taken. Though the platform is deep underground, the windows of the train are weepy with raindrops. It must’ve just gotten in to the station.

You sit down on the outer seat of a row next to a young woman with long, blonde hair. She’s wearing a blazer over a dress and doesn’t carry any bag; it’s the perfect spot for you and your heavy backpack. There’s nothing worse than being forced to squeeze in beside someone who’s just as weighted down as you are with baggage. You worry less about accidentally encroaching on the space each seat is entitled to when your seatmate isn’t carrying too much.

As you sit, you notice that the young woman has a flip phone. It strikes you as odd, but you decide there are plenty of slightly odd, harmless people in the city. Her attire is that of another benign commuter, just like you, and she isn’t trying to rudely take up two seats or anything else out of the ordinary.

You place your bag on the floor and ignore her as she idly flips the old phone open and closed. Her gaze is fixed on the window, away from you. The fake leather of the seat is freezing, cold enough to be felt through the thick fabric of your uncomfortable office slacks. It shouldn’t be this cold. It isn’t even October yet.

It’s still nearly ten minutes before the train departs. The air in the train is cold, too. It doesn’t feel like that heavy, artificial cool of air conditioning. There’s just something about this car that feels like a train in the dead of winter, when the metal bones of the beast would have frozen if they were water.

You mind your business. You double-check the integrity of your digital ticket before the train plunges into dark tubes and tunnels. You’re faintly curious to look at the window and see your seatmate’s reflection. The flip phone is quite strange; it distantly piques your interest. 

You pretend to look forward and out the window, but you turn your eyes sharply to see her reflection. A hood covers her brownish hair. It just barely peeks out of the hood’s sanctuary. You’ve never seen someone’s eyes look so desolate. And you’ve been doing this commute for too long of a while. But turning toward the stranger you’re sitting next to is a bit too intimate on a rush-hour train, so you resist the temptation. You rub your hands together to try and banish the unseasonable chill.

You sit and kill time on your phone. After all, that’s what people do on trains. The girl lets out a sigh. Was that an invitation to speak? You look back at the girl beside you, breaking the social expectation never to make eye contact. You push that unspoken rule of do not engage right down onto the train tracks.

“Some weather out there, right?” you ask, though you usually detest talking about the weather. “I can’t believe it’s already so cold.”

You turn to her and smile. She doesn’t move. It’s as if she didn’t hear you. Perhaps she’s wearing earphones, hidden away in that hood, and you’ve just made a fool of yourself. You quickly turn away and pray to the gods of awkwardness that she didn’t hear you at all. It’s much more comfortable to believe that than that she might be ignoring you.

People slowly file into the train, filling every seat, and grabbing up the more desirable standing areas. Three young women strike gold, sitting in one of the groupings where four seats all face each other. They sit in the row ahead of you, chattering about new tattoos and manicures. Things you can’t afford on your salary. Deep down, you know you only feel annoyed by their conversation because you wish you were having it. But those feelings are too deep to dig into on a rainy evening during rush hour.

A businesswoman dressed in a suit so well-fitted that it must be designer pauses beside your seat. You don’t look up at first since you can’t imagine her reason for stopping there has anything to do with you. The aisle hasn’t fully packed yet, so there’s no reason for her to stop right there and invade your space.

“Excuse me,” she says, her voice polite but a little brusque.

You look up at her and blink. “Pardon me?”

She must be a decade or more older than you. She is the kind of prim woman in a skirt suit that must be dry cleaned. She looks a little too much like your boss with her coiffed hair. Her mandatory kindness and forced politeness melt away as she impatiently nods to the seat beside you. “May I?”

You look at her strangely, then back at the girl beside you. You notice that the blonde girl’s hoodie looks a bit old and faded. You can’t judge her for that, though. Your clothes aren't exactly fresh off the rack either. She’s looking out the window, still fiddling with her phone. Flipping it open and flipping it closed.

“I’m sorry, the seat is taken,” you say, nodding toward the girl beside you.

The businesswoman, having lost her patience, scowls. “That so? Saving seats at rush hour?”

She still doesn’t turn to look at you or defend her right to sit there. It’s as if she’s abandoning her battle and letting you, an unconnected stranger, fight it for her.

You see the reflection of her blue eyes in the window, and confusion settles over you.

“Yes, she’s right here,” you say, hoping the girl at your side will finally say something.

“Are you crazy?” The woman snaps, looking from you to the seat beside you. “Or just rude?”

The businesswoman doesn’t wait for an answer. She twists her head forward and stomps off, her high heels snapping against the ground.

People in the rows of seats to your left, ahead, and behind you sneak tentative glances at you over their phones. They’re curious, dimly cautious, but not enough to stare openly.

You blink again. “You mean you don’t see her?”