the train

I am waiting for a train on the platform and I am the only one there. I sit under the green vinyl awning to release myself from the midday heat. I fan myself absently with a brochure I will not read. Sweat clings to my upper lip as though I’ve just drank a thick glass of milk. I roll pebbles around under the sole of my shoe. 

I look across the tracks to the platform opposite mine. I see myself waiting there— polished and punctual. I am not fanning myself, not at all affected by the heat. I am sitting up tall, a cardigan draped with a careless kind of stylishness over my shoulders. In my hand I see a well-worn book, my index finger hooked between two pages, holding firmly to a place in the middle I’ve likely been before.

The whistle blows at last, and I look up suddenly to see my train coming down the track. I uncross my legs and gather my bag which presses a large red mark into my shoulder. I check my ticket to confirm, but as the train nears I notice it’s on the track opposite mine— the track where I sit, collected. I stare at the train stopped on the opposite track. I make no move to correct myself. 

I watch the train pull away, taking myself with it. She’s going to make it on time, I think to myself. At least she’s going to make it. 

I am standing on the train platform, and there is no one else here.