Although the overhead fans hissed tirelessly, I swear I could feel it — the heat from outthere crawling through the cracks, threatening to do us all in. “Be my guest,” I dared the sliver of sun between the boarding bridge and the train. My hands itched as I rushed past business class, but when I snagged a seat, I found no rash on my palms. Not even a flush.
Of course not.
“Thank you for choosing …” the train speakers chased passengers to empty seats. If heat prickled their skin, their expressions did not betray it, although half the railcar hid behind masks. I made a game of guessing which dangers they sought to parry with polypropylene. For my part, the stench of gas — motor and human — had me reaching for my respirator.
Instead, I pulled up my hood.
“This seat taken?”
I turned to the stranger — you — with a flat frown. Coach wasn’t a place for courtesy. “Clearly it’s not.”
You grinned. “Gorge.”
As if to emphasize my incredulity, the speakers announced: “If you cannot find a seat, please wait for the next train.”
While I skimmed my e-book, you and your silver curls settled into the seat across. The black shimmer across your lids sharpened your eyes from curious to knowing. I couldn’t resign myself to your distraction so I searched my backpack for my pills.
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You smirked like we shared a secret.
“They’re authorized.”
“I’m sure.” When I didn’t respond to your teasing tone, you added, “Whatever it takes to reach tomorrow, right?”
“Tickets!” The conductor emerged, eyes tired, and squinted at your ID. “Damn.”
You laughed. “I know right!”
My own name inspired a similar sigh, but the speakers cut off the conductor’s wisecrack: “Thank you for choosing …”
“So wanna guess what name my parents cursed me with? I’ll give you a hint: celestial.”
My own snort surprised me. “That’d apply to me too.” I quickly added, “But I’m not one to talk to strangers.”
“Wouldn’t be strangers if we knew each other’s names.”
The hum of the train’s departure stole your attention and my medication mine. I turned up my phone’s brightness, determined to make it to the next page.
“Gorgeous,” you expanded your first abbreviation. My eyes darted up to clarify what, exactly, you were referencing. Not me — the view. Fields of sunflowers in perfect bloom.
“Almost too good to be true,” I muttered at the rows of golden-yellow.
Your gaze turned fond as if my cynicism was charming. “Is it so bad that I don’t want to see the real thing? There’s nothing we can do so I’d rather … pretend.”
“Pretend,” I repeated.
“That sounds horrible, doesn’t it?”