The hard plastic seat seeped cold through Ainsley’s thin sweatpants as she waited on the train station bench. She should have dressed warmer, but the sun had been deceivingly bright that morning. Barely a few snowflakes had fallen all winter, but there she was, pulling the faux fur neckline of her parka tight around her neck as she shivered.
She really should have worn earmuffs. The frosty air was stinging her throat, and her nose got terribly runny when she was cold. She didn’t bring tissues, but it was embarrassing to blow your nose in public anyway, because everyone scoots away from you and discreetly covers their mouths. If David were there, he would have given her his coat. The chilly days were always more bearable wrapped in his arms, toned by hours of firefighting.
The light blue sky faded as the sun sank below the horizon. Only a few streaks of orange marked the remnants of a sunny afternoon, like tiger stripes. The light painted the snow-covered mountains in fire and ice. It must be cold in the mountains during the winter. Ainsley wondered how many animals and irresponsible hikers were still trudging through the snow, shivering as frost nipped at their ears and frozen flakes melted in tiny trails down their necks.
A man wearing a ski cap sat next to Ainsley and pulled a thick book out of his backpack. She tried to see what he was reading out of the corner of her eye, but the book didn’t have a dust jacket. It couldn’t have been a romance because men didn’t read romances—at least David hadn’t. Maybe other men did. All she knew was that the chapter he was reading had an illustration by the title. Maybe it was a nice edition of War and Peace, or it could be a Brandon Sanderson novel. Ainsley had never read Brandon Sanderson and had no idea if his books had illustrations, but she knew they could be quite lengthy.
A quick glance at the man’s feet revealed red high tops, worn through on the edges with a bit of sock poking through the canvas. The laces were dirty and sagging, probably from being stepped on too many times. His appearance suggested he could easily afford new shoes, so maybe they were a lucky pair. More likely, he was just too lazy to drive to Walmart after a long day of literature classes. Did he study literature? He had to, if he was willing to read such a large novel.
Ainsley looked down at her own shoes. They used to be a nice pair, despite having bought them from a discount store with the funds she had managed to scrape together. She didn’t know why she chose pink shoes when she didn’t even like pink, but they were cheap, and that’s all she cared about at the time. Now, the memory foam inside was tearing up, and her white laces were nearly as gray and limp as the man’s. She had no right to judge the condition of his footwear.
There was a ring on the man’s left pointer finger, but his fourth finger was bare. Did he have a girlfriend? Was he planning to propose soon? Ainsley stared at her own finger where an engagement ring had once rested. She missed the familiar feeling of cool metal on her skin. Maybe she should ask the man what he was reading.
Ainsley never liked to bother strangers when they could so easily reject her. She kept silent and tucked her left hand into her coat pocket.
The train was going to arrive soon, in about five minutes or so. More people meandered onto the platform, sweaty bodies crowding together as they grumbled about how late the bus was today and what they would make for dinner when they got home. Many of them hefted sturdy backpacks over their shoulders, likely college students hauling around giant textbooks about human anatomy or Kantian philosophy. So many people just waiting, waiting, waiting for the train to take them back to slobbering beagles or empty apartments.
A woman stood on the edge of the platform—or were they a man? It was hard to tell under the dim fluorescent lights. They wore a fur-lined parka like Ainsley’s, and their phone screen emitted a soft glow. One foot was on the bumpy yellow paving separating the platform from the short drop onto the tracks. People usually didn’t stand so close. Was this person distracted by an Instagram DM from the guy they were talking to? Were they anxious to be the first one on the train? It was always hard to get a good seat at that time of day.
Maybe they were on the verge of taking the last step to end it all. It would be so easy to jump in front of a moving train. Ainsley had thought about that a few times in the past month.
The people on the platform shifted restlessly as the train approached; its headlights pinpricks in the semi-darkness. The sound of its bell was deafening as it pulled into the station, its brakes screeching like a group of cicadas. The red and white paint was worn away by years of bad weather conditions, and the train carried an odd smell of urine and diesel. The automatic doors opened, and the crowd of tired people shoved each other out of the way as they tried to be the first one on. The man with the thick book entered one car, and Ainsley chose another.
Ainsley dragged her heavy suitcase up the metal steps to the second story. She liked it up there, especially when her favorite seat happened to be empty. She used to like a different seat, but that was when she had David next to her. Now, she preferred the solo one in the corner, its chevron fabric torn and its cushion flattened from too many bodies. Like everything else on the train, it smelled a little funny, but at least there weren’t any mysterious stains. She never had to worry about sitting across from a stranger and avoiding idle conversation while in this seat. She couldn’t handle another weirdo asking for her number. She had already been asked out by two high school-aged boys that month.
It was hard to see anything through the glare of interior lights on the glass. She could barely make out a billboard in the distance, something about how difficult it was to take care of 22-inch hair. Ainsley thought this ad was stupid, considering her hair was more than three feet long. The advertisers had no idea what they were talking about. She considered cutting her hair, but David loved running his fingers through the long strands. She wasn’t ready to part ways with that memory.
There were a few ads on the train walls, including a new one about an ironing deal at some local laundromat. It showcased a neatly stacked pile of freshly ironed shirts: one checkered like a blue picnic blanket, a gray one that reminded her of David’s pillowcases, and a plaid one that could either be dark red or maroon, depending on how you looked at it. The red felt out of place, like a person wandering aimlessly after a bad breakup. Ainsley wasn’t sure what the point of the ad was. She didn’t think people used laundromats much anymore, let alone for something as mundane as ironing.
There was another poster in the corner that was much more eye-catching. The style was reminiscent of pop art, like a comic book designed to lure young adults into a dull life of keyboards and empty toner. It advertised a career event where you could “Find the next pathway to your future!” It featured cartoon representations of different occupations, including a fighter jet, a firefighter helmet, and a fist with long black nails. Ainsley couldn’t figure out what the fist was supposed to mean. Did it symbolize female empowerment? But some men had painted nails, so maybe it implied a nail technician. Strange, since that wasn’t usually the kind of job you’d find at those events.
Ainsley’s gaze trailed back to the firefighter’s helmet. David would have loved this poster. He always got so excited when he saw anything to do with firefighting, saving people from a blaze of fear, and smiling as he watched reunions between sobbing family members.
But it was the same passion for helping others that took his life, leaving behind the one woman he had loved more than the thrill of steam rising from an extinguished flame.
David had bought her flowers for their date that afternoon; roses and lilies bundled together in a red and white declaration of romantic passion. He had tucked a delicate blossom behind her ear and was about to start his daily complimenting of the greens and browns swirling through her eyes when his phone buzzed in his pocket. The chief said they were short-staffed at the station, that it was only a trash fire sparked by a discarded cigarette. He would be back before their restaurant reservation, David told her as he tugged on his boots and planted a quick kiss on Ainsley’s head.
But he hadn’t come back before their reservation. He hadn’t come back at all. The tightness Ainsley had felt in her chest when she spotted red and blue lights flashing through the blinds, the blood draining from her face as the officer gently commended David for saving a young boy’s life, the lingering smell of smoke drifting into the townhome, the last whisperings of a lover’s embrace—how quickly these things had crushed her hopes for a life filled with wide-eyed children gathered around their father.
The train wobbled over a bump in the tracks, and Ainsley closed her eyes before tears could prick her lashes. She liked traveling at night. It was freezing during the winter, and while there was a higher chance of being stabbed by some homeless guy in the dark; at least people didn’t ask questions. They were too tired to take notice of a quiet woman on the train, unaware of the ache rising in her chest every time she looked at her bare finger.
Ainsley wondered if she should have talked to that man on the platform. He had to be a decent man if he read books in public. They could have shared a ride, empty, silent, life moving on and coming to a stop like the train that carried them both.