Roosevelt Line, Eastbound

“Roosevelt line, eastbound?” the woman across from him said, voice slightly muffled by the hum of the subway and the crack-crack-crack of its bowed walls. “Rare seein’ someone else go this way.”

“I could say the same,” he offered. Nausea greased his gut, heavy and cold like motor oil. His ears were ringing. The subway had never quite agreed with him.

“Where ya heading?”

“Oh, just—” He swallowed dry. “—work. Y’know.”

The woman regarded him with something just short of sympathy. “Ah, alright. Late start?”

He nodded. A sharp headache was already throbbing behind his eyes, and he dug his thumbs into his brows in a futile attempt to alleviate it.

“S’that coffee?”

He squinted at the woman. Ah. He held up his Starbucks cup. “Decaf.”

She laughed. Distantly, he noticed the crinkle lines around her eyes. A happy person. “Decaf coffee only works if ya throw it at people,” she said.

He smiled, thin-lipped. Frankly, he wasn’t sure if it was a smile or a grimace, but for the sake of civility he hoped it was the former.

“For the taste, then,” she suggested.

“For the taste.”

“Ya don’t seem like the typa person to.”

“Yeah? I probably do need caffeine to keep my eyes open.”

“Yeah,” the woman replied with a casual shrug. “Say—isn’t it Labor Day? Whatcha goin’ off to work for?”

“Start-up. Holidays aren’t really a thing for us.”

“Too busy?”

He nodded and swallowed with an audible click, fingers tightening around his coffee.

The subway wobbled around them like a mirage. The fluorescent light strips flickered. From the intercom a voice crackled, This is Roosevelt Distr—

“Ah.”

—32nd Street. Please watch your—

The woman stood up, straightened. “My stop.”

—as you exit the train.

“See ya around,” she said. “Probably the last time I’ll be goin’ this way, though.” A beat. “Settlin’ a divorce today. And then leavin’ here for good.” She laughed, a bit awkwardly. “Oh, lord. The things we tell strangers.”

The door slid open. All the doors were opening, ten or so cars, layer upon layer of soft rattling. The station outside was empty and bright.

“Are you happy?” he asked the woman’s retreating form.

Everything was suddenly too silent, too loud. The doors were wide open and waiting. “Not really,” the woman answered, and smiled. The crinkle lines appeared again. Then she stepped out of the car, heels click-click-clicking on the white linoleum, leather bag thrown over a crisp shoulder, and as the train pulled slowly from the platform she disappeared around a corner, out of sight.