Traveler

A young woman with straight, wedged hair dyed black with white streaks lumped into the seat next to the door connecting the cars of the train. Her seat mate facing her shifted in his seat towards the window. The woman slouched into the stiff gray cushion and leaned her elbow on the arm rest. People filed past her into the next car, ours being empty of double seats. Her glasses made sharp angles and had fresh white trim that drew a stark line across her forehead. Tired eyes looked blankly forward. She had no luggage other than a small hand bag, slung into the empty spot next to her. She was layered in t-shirts and sweatshirts and a coat that would make for a long winter in Chicago, the city we just left. Once the train started out of the station, she dialed. Without as much as a hello her weekend unraveled into the receiver, and to the passengers around her. "They must have partied in there or something, the back room," she sighed, "there is some kind of plaster over all the walls. They left the heat at 78 the whole time I was gone, so I have to pay for that for the two months, it's not as if I turned it off. It was set at 55, I don't know why the pipes froze. And so I'm just going to go home and the next time I go back I'll get my plants and that will be it, I guess." She sighed again, the finality sinking in. When she spoke next, it was with resolve, even if it was exhausted resolve. "I picked up the mail and I'm going to open it now, on the train, and just try to relax." She'd be at her mom's house by 9:30, she thought. She ended her call, shifted to her side and fell asleep.