She comes in twice a week, always wearing the same uniform. A white blouse with a red collar, a grey skirt with a red floral pattern at the lower hem. Her cheeks are softly powdered, and her lips are painted red or pink, which I believe blends well with her clothes. Was this train to Pasadena her only transport?
She likes to sit in the third row, almost up front, where she can gaze at the sleeping city. Sometimes she scribbles things on the wet window pane; last week she drew a little girl with a question sign over her head.
Sometimes the little girl is walking a dog, flying a kite, or even running beside a brook, but always with that question sign over her head.
I have resisted the urge to read her thoughts for many months now, mostly fearing that I might not like what I find. I know I won’t stop until I return a smile to her face.
She doesn’t notice him, sitting across from her, in the other row. He likes her body and her face, but most of all he likes her eyes. They remind him of his Lyza. He wished he could help her, say hello, then perhaps have a coffee together.
How he looks forward to seeing her every day, and his dying heart craves one moment with her.
She wiped a teardrop from her cheek, and I struggled once more with the temptation to move forward and see what was inside.
She wiped the other cheek, pulled out a grey hand towel, and softly dabbed her eyes. I noticed for the first time that her nails were very dirty. Why is that? Where did she work? Why the tears today? Have I seen her cry before? I can’t recall.