I wait on the platform with bags under my arms and under my eyes. It’s cool outside, and the recent August rain has left the track damp, filling the air with the smell of wet steel and concrete. Gold numbers shining on the marquee compete against the lights of the city skyline. 11:36pm.
Finally, I can make out a glowing light in the black distance as the Empire Builder approaches the platform and grinds to a halt, sighing as if weary from its last voyage. I follow a handful of strangers down the track to my car and wait my turn to board. The conductor takes my ticket and scrawls three letters on a slip of paper: F-A-R.
The train is dark, and most people are sleeping, so I quietly find my seat and stow my bags. I close my eyes but find only visions of mountains, pines, and grassy plains rippling like the sea. Slipping out of my seat, I make my way to the observation car to write out my thoughts.
The car is empty save for a few dozing travelers and a small group of strangers in a hushed, yet heated, discussion about their interpretations of God. I take a seat with my back to them. Curved picture windows neglect the outside world, in their darkness reflecting only the inside of the lighted cabin. Eavesdropping on the strangers’ conversation, I steal glances at their reflection before suddenly I’m interrupted by one of them who takes a seat next to mine.
His hair is unkempt, his voice deep and hoarse from debate, but I’m struck by a gentleness in his face and eyes. Unconsciously, I close my journal, and he tells me his name is Grant, or Douglas really, but that he never much felt like a Douglas. I agree Grant suits him better. He tells me he’s from Tennessee, Chattanooga maybe, but lives in Portland, Oregon, and has just come from visiting a young woman he had once been in love with named Georgia in Massachusetts. We share our journals, and I fawn over the art he has filled his with—a beautiful mess of ink, black on the page, full of emotion. He is fragile, and I sense his mind is erratic when he speaks. His smile, while somewhat seldom, is soft and kind, just as he is despite a rather rough past. He tells me about his former heroin addiction and I can see how proud he is of his recent sobriety. With pain in his eyes, he assures me that heroin does nothing but destroy life, love, and people.
Growing quiet, he sits bent with his elbows resting on his knees, head held in his hands. I ask if something’s wrong, and he admits to feeling guilty over his attraction to me. Perhaps because of Georgia or the young man's name mentioned in my journal. I pause before confessing that I feel the same strange, guilty way. He rests his hand beside my leg and tells me it will be there waiting should I choose to hold it. After a moment of hesitation, my fingers intertwine with his, and he strokes the top of my thumb so tenderly I want to cry. As we sit in the silent company of our reflection, he lays his head on my shoulder and begins to sing a song by my name. I close my eyes, and we drift to sleep for a few blissful moments.
The train slows to a crawl, and I realize we’ve reached my stop. Grant tells me to get my bags and meet him outside for one last goodbye. Stepping off the train and back into the real world, a cloud of smoke hangs over his face in the dim, blue light of early morning. We say our goodbyes, and the bell sounds for departure as I walk down the platform toward the rising sun. The sickly sweet smell of tobacco lingers on my cheek.
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