Half of You

Monday morning.

Winter has finally remembered it's winter and the bitter wind has only returned to harshly kiss my cheeks. 

A busy woodpecker hard at work. 

I walk down into the subway for the first of what will be many times this week, like every other week, like every week. 

Nobody's around; I must have just missed it, again. I put my token in and walk all the way down near the end of the platform. The sound of soft classical music echoes throughout this vast chamber, flowing in and out, freely.

I step onto the yellow line and look down the long, dark tunnel, knowing very well that I won't see a damn thing, knowing that I just missed it, again. 

But something else catches my eye: walking towards me on the platform - a beautiful girl. 

A beautiful girl.

God, I wish there words that still meant something, more than just - because "beautiful" is so many things, and she was better than all of them.

Much more than "beautiful."

She now stands a good fifty feet away, looking straight ahead and down at her phone and back up again and I can only ever see half of her, but I can see so much. 

Her hair is as brown as it is gold and she wears a long black coat that flows down to her ankles and she has a small brown backpack on, just like mine. 

A few moments of eternity pass on the cold and dirty subway platform. 

We get on the train, two door down from one another. We both remain standing. And then I get off to transfer, and she follows, I can see her over my shoulder, close behind. 

I walk into the other subway and she ends up right beside me. Four feet away, and she could have very well stood anywhere other than beside me. 

But she's right there. Right here. What would make someone do such a thing? She must - 

The second subway arrives and we get on, she goes to the left, I go to the right, and we get on one door down from one another.

We both stay standing again, both leaned up against the little bit of room near the doors. Like a mirror image, there she is, right through the thin piece of plexiglass.  

I look over, towards her, at every excuse I get. She's right there, in my world. Such Beauty, my mind fails me now already to remember all of it. How can I? It's not everyday you see such Beauty. 

"8th Street Station." My stop is coming up now. We pull into the station and the doors lurch open and I - 

What if I stayed a little while longer? And she stayed, too. And neither of us wanted to get off this crazy train that takes people and entire lives from one place to another. And we both stayed on, because the other stayed on. And on and on and on...

- get off. 

I walk parallel to the train, past where she still stands inside, looking out at me. But I no longer have any excuses left and I tell myself it's better not to look now anyway, the pain of looking one last time might be too much. So I just keep my eyes set dead ahead, unwavering on the outside, feeling completely helpless on the inside. 

And now I'm standing here in the bathroom, putting off work, to write these words. 

And now I'm sitting here behind my computer, putting off work, to write these words. 

Is it only here that she will ever live in my life again? In-between Monday and Monday?

Maybe she's writing similar things, too, somewhere, wherever it is she got off. 

Maybe she never did. 

Maybe we'll see one another again. 

Maybe next Monday. 

 

 

I hope.