Departure

Waiting for the 11:11

Her heels click, hard and fast. She counts her steps from the ticket machine to the platform. She counts her steps to the vending machine to get a cappuccino, and back again to the little bench on the platform. They don’t match up. The distance has stretched. She’s not walking slower or faster.

She holds her head high, shoulder blades on the back. Her coat is cinched tight, a pathetic shield against the cold night. Her train is at 11.11. An auspicious time. The trip will last 7 hours.

She locked her apartment and went inside again to ensure the gas was turned off. Then went inside again to unplug some electrical appliances. She checked that she had her wallet three times.

The guy in the Uber didn’t say anything. He was listening to French Rap. She didn’t tip him. At the station, she made a point not to look at anyone, the pale faces floating in the dark, featureless. A teenager ran by with a backpack. A few people rolled suitcases.

Across the track, she noticed a man in a slouchy suit looking at her, smoking a cigarette. She clutched her Styrofoam cup. She could throw coffee into his face if he dared to approach. He did not. When she looked up again, he was gone. She couldn’t see if he had tossed his cigarette stub onto the concrete.

She hoped the train would be empty. Not so many people to have to block out or turn into outlines to trace. The lights were yellow, keeping her company but with a hostile glow. Four more minutes until her train would hurl itself into her station.

She loved the reliability of trains, their punctual determination, so unlike her own thick inertia. She thought she was glad that she no longer had a cat. Her plants would die. Dust would gather everywhere. She did not mind.