She stood there without a coat and really; she needed one. \u00a0It was cold outside\u2013not bitter mind you, but a wet cold. \u00a0The mist was chilling and the bleak sun rays\u00a0slipped\u00a0from behind the heavy clouds, illuminating nothing.\u00a0 Light reflected coldly in the\u00a0dripping moisture that clung to the bare tree limbs. \u00a0Sluggish rain, he\u2019d almost say lazy drizzle, semi-solidified upon the winter brittle tree limbs and bushes, pulled the branches down toward the ground. He stood there and watched her pondering; why would she be without a coat in the middle of a semi-freeze rain storm?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He continued to watch, intrigued, despite his concern regarding her lack of forethought. He enjoyed watching women. She looked down at her feet and studied her brown, nondescript shoes with more solemn attention than they deserved. \u00a0Glancing up\u00a0he realized, oddly enough, she smiled in a tired accepting fashion, at the long and bleak trail of the empty railroad tracks. He frowned, puzzled, looking about for the person teasing her \u2014 someone must be \u2014 or perhaps she was thinking of someone. \u00a0A young child, perhaps, acting out to cheer her on dreary afternoons or was she was thinking of a long-term lover who knew her moods and who knew she didn\u2019t do well on rainy days. He peered about looking for that someone who must have caused that Mona Lisa smile but the train depot was empty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Keeping his distance, tactically checked his chin for any roughness; a sign he wasn\u2019t careful enough this morning while shaving, but found his chin faultless. \u00a0He didn\u2019t understand the rage today to allow so much stubble on a man\u2019s chin. \u00a0It was nothing new, chin stubble. \u00a0He remembered his grandfather, from the old country, German to the core, going a day or two without shaving, especially during harvest time. \u00a0However, no matter how tired the man was, he wouldn\u2019t go out socially without a good shave. Why young men thought going about in public with what he reasoned was a harvester\u2019s beard made them sexier or more intriguing to women was beyond him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He glanced over at the young woman again, who was now just inside the depot, standing alone by the door. She was staring right at him. She ducked her head, embarrassed at being caught assessing him. Though she looked away, he tried to give the woman a half smile and a nod. Wasn\u2019t he doing the same? Looking her over? He didn\u2019t get caught.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He smiled to himself, but sorry that it embarrassed her.\u00a0 A sixty-something, thick glasses, his tie too wide for present style dictates, his sports coat a good fifteen years old, navy blue (horrors) and his khaki pants\u00a0starched and ironed\u2013taboo. He knew when he reached his destination he would be the only man there, young, old or otherwise, with a plaid shirt. He knew he looked neat in appearance, which would make him appear fastidious, unattractive and old-fashioned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He took out his well ironed, white, cotton kerchief and wiped lightly at his nose to hide his smile. He did not understand why he thought it was funny to appear as a fussy old man, especially at the expensive of that poor drab young girl.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cExcuse me?\u201d Her voice was soft and he could tell it took a lot of courage for her to approach him. He looked up at the same time he said, \u201cYes?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo one is at the ticket counter.\u201d She turned to look at the vacant counter to confirm the obvious. He knew Mr. Mullins would be in the back making tea and spreading too much mayonnaise on his hard salami sandwich; a fact he had to push out of his mind quickly for fear his disgust for Mr. Mullins and all things sandwich would show upon his face\u2013and she would misinterpret that. \u201cI was wondering\u2013do the trains run on time?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo, I\u2019m afraid not. I hope you are not trying to make a connection in the city.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She smiled, almost it seemed in relief. \u201cNo, actually I\u2019m not. I was just here to get away for a while. I\u2019m in no hurry to get back.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAhh, you live there then.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her face became suddenly still, void of animation, and almost pasty. \u201cWell, I work there.\u201d
He could only nod, not knowing really how to take her odd reply. He wondered suddenly, with dread, if she would tell him her life story. How she was alone in the world, working for next to nothing for a man who had everything and existing in a small garret apartment in a rather rundown part of town.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But he felt his shoulders relax for she turned away and walked back to stare out of the window, watching the mist gather into pools of muddy water upon the sidewalk and along the tired tracks that never varied in direction since the day the iron monsters appeared to accommodate the so few who used public transportation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked about at the depot, not changed since the 1970s\u2013and at that the only change was disconcerting. The railway had thought it best to do away with the long time wooden benches and replace them with spoon-like fiberglass seats that not even the most agile of hoodlums could slouch into a workable, relaxing sit-down. It outraged most in the small town, so the renovations stopped\u2013they saved the wood and the glass of the depot for prosperity. The benches? They saved most, and they had places of honor in homes around the small town; his own front entrance sported a sanded down renovated bench\u2013it glowed in shining glory there under soft lamps and amid walking sticks and umbrellas. No one sat on it any longer. Good company just wiped their feet and kept on toward his large living room\u2013forgetting about the bench altogether.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There were the Smiths. They wanted two of the benches and insisted that the carvings and the overall wear and tear of the benches made them pieces of art. He snorted aloud at the memory. Checking himself, he glanced over at the young woman to see if he had offended her at all with his noise of disdain. Obviously not, she didn\u2019t even look in his direction.
Works of art! He knew they had no intention of cleaning up the wooden benches while their copious amount of children and now grandchildren still charged about their house as if they were aboard Vice Admiral Halsey\u2019s Enterprise, during the battle of Midway\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m sorry to bother you again\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He stood abruptly, and she took a step back. He tried to smile, but he knew his attempt at trying to look friendly only made him appear condescending, so he tried to frown just a little as if the next words out of her mouth would tilt the world.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
To his delight, she fought a genuine smile. \u201cI was wondering, just how late does the train arrive? I thought of going over to the caf\u00e9 for some coffee\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He interrupted her. \u201cOh, I\u2019m afraid it may be a little late for that. I think the train is nearly here.\u201d He swelled with his own good luck. Mr. Mullins had come around the depot and was standing on the sodden wooden planks outside. The conductor knew that at last the errant train into town was coming ’round the bend.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She turned, following his glance past her. Flushing slightly, she said, \u201cOh. Well, I guess that\u2019s what I get.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He wasn\u2019t sure how to respond to her\u2013what sort of retribution had she received? He had only stated a fact, and it wasn\u2019t an inconvenience to let her know the train was imminent; as a matter of fact the timing of the situation was wonderful, it reminded him of a Sherlock Holmes story but for the life of him he couldn\u2019t remember the title.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She turned and seemed to wander away from him rather than walk in any one direction. He cocked his head slightly; a habit his last lover found annoying. Smiling to himself, he wondered what that eminent and profound woman was doing with herself lately.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Hearing the clatter of the slowing train and the low warning whistle. He filled his lungs, suddenly exuberant with the thought of the two-hour train ride, and a day and night in the city.\u00a0 He had shopping to do, then a late supper with one of his longtime sorority friends. They planned to meet at their club, and though the dress code was a nuisance, he was looking forward to the all-male company the club offered. He liked women, but only in small doses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He turned, and she was standing in the rain. Huddled was more like it. Why on earth didn\u2019t she stay in the station until the train had stopped and was ready for passengers? Shaking his head, but determined, he grabbed his umbrella and headed in her direction. Walking up to her and extended his deep, black umbrella over her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou could have stayed in the station\u2026\u201d She was crying. \u201cWhat on earth is wrong?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t want to go.\u201d Her voice was strained, so she hiccuped her words. He wanted to run. Hand her the damned umbrella\u00a0and run. She was young, probably sentimental and had heartbreaking thoughts of never seeing this tiny, little, quiet, peaceful, peering, scrutinizing, gossiping, town again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMy dear young lady, I\u2019ve lived here all of my life.\u00a0 You\u2019re better off in the city and facing the heartbreak of leaving this antique encrusted little tourist town once a year on vacation rather than being tethered to it and all its gossiping politics for the rest of your life.\u201d\u00a0 He heard Mr. Mullins clucking in the background, and it was all he could do to keep from turning on the old man and glaring at him into his grave. He turned back to the young woman, \u201cWhat\u2019s your name?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSarah.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMine\u2019s Abraham, how do you do?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And for the first time in his life, he saw a romantic glimmer of hope for she smiled through her tears, \u201cI\u2019ve always wanted someone to say that\u00a0to me,\u201d she whispered. \u201cI don\u2019t think your name is really Abraham.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked hard at the simple, almost gray woman before him; young, her eyes red from crying, and she needed a tissue for her nose. Her hair curled under the misting rain and it blotted the little makeup she wore on her face.\u00a0“Nathaniel Barrett, is my name and I am the proverbial ‘Philadelphia Lawyer.’\u00a0 My occupation has allowed me to retire early and work on only what interests me in the world of high finance. I hate romantic books, antique dealers, and the crushing academic weight of ‘women\u2019s studies’.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSarah Lewis, I\u2019m a poet and essayist. I majored in women\u2019s studies and I love anything old.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He stood staring at her as the train spewed exhaust and clanked contently to a stop. Then he smiled at the young woman without thinking how he must appear; \u201cPleased to meet you,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Photo by Fabio Neo Amato on Unsplash<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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