They are all going somewhere on this train; I just don't
know where, or why
the man clutching his
cardboard cup of coffee; the woman reading the latest edition of the New Yorker;
a man with a cell phone shouting in it in a language I do not understand, not
Spanish or French, almost alien, save for the intensity and the volume, he
pleading his case to some other invisible party, saying how much he loves her
maybe; mothers maybe, teachers maybe, all the others in the car among us,
trying not to notice, trying not to look annoyed while I think how little I
know of what is not said or all others who keep mum about it, the lovers they
miss, the kisses they miss, the tenderness in the same way I miss her, wishing
I could do it all over again
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