Page 10 of Somewhere Along The Line
The words come out slowly, like molasses that clings to the sides of the bottle until it can’t hang on any longer. I’m not sure how much of this story I’m willing to divulge, so I buy time with a long swallow. The curved top of the booth angles sharply into my back; the pain distracts only slightly from the tension in my chest.
“There’s this woman, her name is Piper, and we share the same commute. I’ve been seeing her every morning on the train for weeks, and today we had an exchange.”
To call the situation an “exchange” feels disingenuous, but I’m not sure there’s a more appropriate way to say, “We were flanked on all sides by costumed men while we agreed to defraud the government.”
“We talked for a few. I’m pretty sure I offended her twice. She called me out on my banker bullshit, I insulted her breakfast, and she griped about how much she’s spending on train fare.”
I study Kyle’s face, looking for a hint about how this story is landing. He gives me nothing.
“It was probably a meaningless exchange,” I continue, “but it has me messed up. Because as you so kindly pointed out earlier, I stay locked in my office for fifteen hours a day, I have no friends, and I keep a cold, dead heart. Flirting on the train wasn’t on today’s agenda, and neither was spending the hours since overanalyzing it.”
I leave the story there for now, not venturing to the part where I offered to create a family commuter account. That’s not a crucial detail for Kyle to know at the moment.
“So, you’re telling me,” Kyle lights up with a smirk now that I’ve (mostly) laid everything out, “that Mr. Stoic-and-Staid, one Mr. James Newhouse, is flustered? Some girl on the train has you all riled up? I’ve gotta be honest, man, I don’t know what I was expecting but this… this is better than I could’ve hoped.”
He leans back in the booth, fingers interlaced behind his neck.
A firm kick to the shin tempers his gloat. He shoots me a glare to show his annoyance, though the kick did seem to bring his energy down a notch.
“Okay, but seriously, this is good. It’s good to see a crack in your armor for once. Sounds like she can keep you on your toes. I hope in six months you’re leaving at seven o’clock every night to take her out, if only so I can stop fighting you for the binding machine for these damn pitch decks in the evenings.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” I reply with a shrug, “but this…whatever this is with her… it’s a no-go, a non-starter. You know I don’t have time with all the shit happening at work and everything going on with my dad. Also, I’m pretty sure she hates guys like us. I’d ruin her for all of mankind, given my stone-cold heart, and while I don’t know much about her, I know she deserves better than that.”
He looks at me with incredulity, digging his fork into his enchilada which recently arrived. My fajitas are nowhere to be seen.
“You have got to be kidding. You finally meet someone who breaks throughthis,” Kyle motions in my general direction, “and you’re just going to what, ignore her every morning for the sake of your ego?”
“What do you want me to say, Kyle?” I huff, my frustration building. “I haven’t dated in years, not seriously at least, since everything went down with Sydney. You might not remember this, given how busy you were dicking around when we were twenty-six, but I’d planned to propose. I would’ve had she not left me for someone more available—someone not beholden to their job and the needs of their family.
“The demands of my job haven’t changed in the years since, and my family situation is worse than ever. It wouldn’t be fair to wrap Piper up in that mess. It’s a bad idea.”
Our server shows up with a steaming cast-iron skillet to save me before I say anything else.
“Just…don’t write this off just yet. Will you promise me that?” Conviction oozes from every line of Kyle’s face.
I can promise exactly nothing but I nod anyway. I’ve spent more relational energy today than I have in years; I have nothing left to give. The emotional hangover might even be worse than this sorry excuse for a fajita plate.
I should’ve stayed at the office.
The next week comes and goes without incident, and this includes my morning commute. Whatever tension existed between Piper and me on the day of Elvis-gate has thankfully dissipated. While my heart rate still ticks steadily up when I see her on the platform, I’ve been able to control myself enough that our new B Line routine feels borderline business-like.
Piper gives me a nod or an eyebrow raise when she boards and I reciprocate. We find each other as the huddle forms to exit the train and trade a single remark before heading in opposite directions on the platform.
Our growing collection of quips and jests swarms my mind during today’s ride home from work, just like it has every night since the game started.
“Wow, I can’t believe you own khakis, Banker Man. Will add it to my list of notes about you.”
“I didn’t take you for a Led Zeppelin girl, but your shirt suggests otherwise.”
“How’s your tea today? Still going with black or are you hiding mango passionfruit in that travel mug?”
“If you’re not careful, you’re going to take someone’s eye out swinging your tote bag around. I just hope it’s not mine.”
“Ahh, there he is. I was worried the financial district was going to be down a money man today. How would they have coped?”
“Don’t you ever get tired of eating the same thing every morning? You know, I’m still waiting for my share of that breakfast.”
I hate to admit that these little barbs are easily the highlight of my day. The promise of seeing Piper, of making her smile or glare or roll her eyes… it’s enough to get my butt in gear every morning, to make sure I make it on the train.
