He walked into the station in an untied hospital gown, feet wet, clothes gathered up against his chest. His hair was too long and hung over one eye. He looked for a bathroom to change in, but there weren’t any. Desks occupied the corners in which they had once stood. Empty white desks. He circled back to the front desk, and the woman there was laughing at him. Her skin and hair were dark--the hair black, half-waved, soft against her face, which was warm and Spanish, though it was sick-bright with the mean laughter, the flashing of her white teeth. “Why are you laughing at me?” he asked, but she kept on laughing behind her hand. He held his clothes tighter to his chest and the water squished under his heels. “Why are you laughing?” She lowered her hand and pretended to go back to work. She pulled hot pink postits from their sticky pad and stuck them around the surface of the desk. There was nothing on them, but she did it anyway. She reminded him of bitter cinnamon and lemon peels.
“Do you think it’s funny that I can’t find a bathroom?” he asked. Her lips half-stifled another laugh. Her hand flitted up to her mouth for a second. Her teeth flashed bright white, and she went back to her post-its. She would not look in his eyes. A few straggling passengers rushed through the gates with their luggage. Their feet echoed flat smacks into the tiny shops and against the upholstered pillars. Daylight shone through the glass in the domed centre of the building. They were bright white, these passengers, flashing through the light to catch their train. “You think it’s funny to laugh at people, is that it?” he asked. She shook her head because she wanted him to shut up. She half-rolled her eyes and threw something in the trash. Her brown hands were fascinating, covered in jasmine scented cream while the rest of her was so bitter. He was like rough sand at the beach. In places no one wants. Sometimes he wondered if his body was just water, which foamed up to make him move. If everything was just foam in the end. He was unsure of himself now, and he blinked and his eyes darted. Some of his hair stuck to his lashes. “It’s not funny,” he said, using the back of his throat. “I’m mentally ill and it’s not funny to laugh at people--” She looked up at him and he stopped talking. Her hands stopped moving, stopped folding the pink post-it into something else.
Things--reality, a sort of decisive consciousness--began to disappear. Behind her, the radio turned on, and she reached back to turn the sound up. But she did not break eyes with him. He didn’t with her. The song was slow and sprinkled with piano trills. She rose from her desk. He set his clothes down. She stepped up to him and put both of her hands in his. They lifted them together. “Like this?” she asked, soft. She was just a bit shorter than he. “Yes,” he said. And they began to dance. At one point, her eyes closeted themselves down and she nodded. He realised he didn’t know her name. When he dipped her, her heart started faltering. He never brought her back up. She died on the blue industrial carpet of the train station with her eyes closed, and was beautiful in the hazy light of the late morning. In three days she was back, looking dreamy. The planes of her cheeks were fine and creamy, like the morning light was forever on them. She seemed always to be smiling slightly. She sat at his kitchen table while he made her milky tea. “Was it alright?” he asked, leaned against the kitchen counter. His hair still hung in his eyes. “I don’t want to say,” she said and warmed her palms against the teacup. “It’s cold in here.” “I know.” he said and shook his head, “I’m sorry.” He wandered down the dark hall to the thermostat.
A car rolled through the alley outside playing classic rock far too loudly. The car stopped and the chorus attacked the building. John came back into the kitchen and she watched him, her hands in her lap, as he poured a glass of water. She followed him to the bathroom and watched him pour a palm full of pills into his hand. He took them, then some more, and some more, and died on the cold floor. She touched his face when his eyes were closed. She brushed his hair back from his forehead, then wandered into his bedroom to find out his name. It was: JONATHAN AARON BAKER He resurfaced at the train station a week later. He stopped by her desk and smiled and they sat and had coffee in one of the station’s small cafés. He was glad he had met her. She did not remind him of bitter lemons anymore. He was afraid, however, that he was still like rough ocean sand. She finished her cappuccino and glanced around the dark café. “Let’s sit on the balcony.” she said. So they did. The sun set before them covered everything in soft blues and lavenders. The trains glided by beneath them, but it was mostly quiet. “You live alone?” she asked. John nodded. “How long have you been working here?” he asked. “Five years.” “You like it?” “I don’t hate it.”
She looked at the sky. The wind shifted dark strands of fly-aways around her face, but she didn’t notice them. “I’m Paloma,” she offered out her hand. “John,” they shook hands over the glass table. “Jonathan.” she said. “I know. I looked at your driver’s license.” “Oh,” he said and nodded. “okay.” They looked back at the sky. The wind brushed through the tops of dark trees beyond the tracks. “You didn't take a blue t-shirt, did you?” he asked. “From my room?” “No.” “It’s just disappeared.” “You’ve been coming to this station for a while?” she asked. “A few years.” “Funny I’ve never seen you before now.” she said. It grew cold when the sun set. He walked her out to her car and they stood under the dim parking lot lights. “Do you think it’ll stop?” he asked, eyes on his shoes. “I don’t know,” she said. “I think it’s a disease.” he said. “Most people have diseases. Everyone has something.” “I don’t,” she said. “You’ve never had something wrong with you before?” he asked. Paloma looked at him. Shook her dark head.
“Lucky,” he said, and went home.