It had been raining for five days, and today was the first day anyone saw the sun. But more importantly, for Kevin, it was the first time he had seen the moon. It was a thin, golden crescent, hardly noticeable if you weren't looking for it. It was hanging in the clear dark sky over the little houses of the many residential neighborhoods the train traverses through. The light pollution in this densely populated part of New England has turned the clear sky starless, leaving the crescent moon ever more lonesome. He wasn't sure if the crescent moon had just passed the new moon phase or about to enter it. The color of the crescent was a dismal, golden color, no glitter, no shine, as if it were a sickle made of gold that once had glistened with glory but now had lost most of its glow. It was hanging as if it were a line stretched downwards by some dark, invisible weight.
This was a night train, and there were only two other passengers in the car with him. One of them had just finished talking on the phone, some sort of business transaction. That man's voice sounded very tired. The other man was now quiet, reading some printed material on laser printer paper. When he entered he had a huge luggage in one hand and phone in the other, talking about a meeting someone else had. It was ten o'clock, most people in these houses under the hanging, depressed moon were getting ready to go to sleep for yet another work day tomorrow. Kevin thought about his work for a little bit. He breathed out a sigh, wondering where that work was taking him in his life, or at least, how long it would accompany him through his voyage.
In this silence of the three passengers, there was only the humming of the train. It was loud enough to block out most of the noises from the outside, from the rails, from the winds. The light is soporific, but Kevin wasn't in the mood to fall asleep. He wasn't really going anywhere. He was where he wanted to be already, the train. He didn't need to sleep to get through the journey so he could wake up where he needed. He was at his destination, the train.
He looked out and saw in the pitch black canvas a cluster of lights moving in opposite directions on what must have been I-95. They looked like some roving fireflies in the late summer, though it was still late winter now. Or they looked like a squadron of fighter jets, on a mission somewhere. He heard a clinging sound. He turned and saw the conductor walk by. He was carrying a huge keychain, full of important keys to important locks protecting important secrets. The conductor was a young man, in his late twenties. As he was walking, he was rotating his ticket puncher in his index finger, as if it were a revolver, as if he were a cowboy in a Western, flipping a Colt-45 in his right hand. Although it was late winter, it was unusually warm, and like many people, the conductor was wearing a short-sleeve shirt, his uniform. The three passengers were not wearing short-sleeve. The two companions of Kevin were still in their business suits and ties. Kevin was still wearing his leather jacket with a faux-fur lining over two layers of long-sleeve shirts. His hands were folded. He noticed that they had a lot more wrinkles than he could remember. He remembered looking at his dad's hand, many decades ago, and saw wrinkles on them for the first time, and every time after that he had noticed more and more wrinkles, more and more lines that sometimes cut deep through the epidermis, causing some redness and even blood stains. These lines were different from lines on one's face. He remembered looking at those lines on his dad's hands and realized how much the old man had worked hard in his life. Now he was looking at his own, on his forty-five-year old hands.
And he thought about her. Would she mind? Would these lines bother her? Would she notice them? Yes, of course she would. He would notice lines on her face just as she would notice lines on his hands. He remembered her smooth, beautiful hands on his. That happened many times, including the last time they were together. That happened in the airport, with a lot of people milling around them, and the sun was outside, though hidden behind clouds that forebode torrential rain. This time, if she showed up, she would see his face, his graying hair, his wrinkles around his eyes, the whiskers of different shades of gray he had neglected or deliberately refused to shave off. He wasn't that old, but he was conscious of the passage of time, especially in the past nine years he hadn't seen her. He had once told someone that age is only in your mind, that how old you are depends on your attitude towards life. Yet, he never figured out how exactly to maintain a youthful attitude. He was afraid his heart had gotten old, and that she would notice. She was ten years younger than he was when they first met. And by the simplest logic, they were still ten years apart, but some people think as you get older the gap shrinks. And yet, in the end, he believed it still depended on how he saw himself.
He turned his hands to look at the palm. He remembered sitting with her, giggling, the two of them, with a fortune-teller in a village somewhere in India. She had picked the little bird to read her future. After the 5-rupee coin was dropped in the palm of the old man, he opened the cage and the little bird hopped out. The old man dealt one card at a time and the bird would brush away the ones he wanted to reject. When three cards were accepted, he lined them up again, face down still, and the bird paced up and down along the cards and then pecked on one. The old man flipped it over and it was a sign of a king, looking weary, holding his staff and sword not as symbols of power but support for his tired existence. He stumbled between English and Hindi, and the gist of it was that she would be with an older man (or just "old" man?) who held some power but really needed her. She giggled at the interpretation. He was amused too, but not as much. He didn't want the bird to read his fortune, even if it was all for fun. He had the old man look at his palm, read the lines and between them. And the mishmash of English and hindi more or less meant that he was constantly traveling on meandering and changing roads in life, sometimes of his own accord, other times he had no say in it. He was amused; he had always traveled, never really had a profession, not like his friends and siblings were were doctors and lawyers and of other professions. His heart sometimes felt meandering. They were just as amused that the fortune-teller and his little bird were telling them what was obvious based on their appearances. But still, at least for him, he was slightly moved.
That last meeting in the airport was a crossroad of some sort for him. He couldn't stay with her, he had to go on a different road she could not be part of, for whatever reason. In retrospect, the bird's interpretation and the old man's seemed contradictory, if the old man was him. The old king. Maybe she found another older man. He had broken her heart and at some point he had accepted that she would never forgive him for it.
Two more stops had passed, three more passengers had joined them in this late train to the big city. It was one of the airports in the big city where they had last seen each other. But that was not where he was going. If she didn't show up in this destination where he already had arrived, he would just take the next return train without leaving the train terminal.
The three passengers comprised another lone, business-looking man, and a young couple. The couple sat diagonal to Kevin. They were tired. They were in their mid twenties, but they were already tired. He was hanging onto her shoulders more than giving any semblance of protecting her. They slumped on the uncomfortable seat of this commuter train. The man's eyes closed first, and then the woman, having looked out into the darkness for a short moment, closed hers too. He thought about Janey. That young woman over there looked like her, if not for any other reason than that this young woman was about the same age that Janey was the last time he had seen her. They had different hairdos, different kinds of make up. It has been nearly a decade, he supposed. Thing must have changed. But the hint of her smile in defiance of her fatigue also reminded him of her. He hadn't thought about her in the past few years. After he had accepted that she would never forgive him he slowly started forgiving himself. And little by little he had stopped thinking about her.
The lone passenger that had just arrived was in the front section of the car, and Kevin could see him lifting his little luggage up to the overhead bin. He was about Kevin's age. He was amused to see that this middle-age man was also alone. Thee were too many lonesome people in this lonesome world. He was alone. For now.
It was a surprising message. It came in the form of a text message, on his phone. She still had his phone number. She didn't email him, she didn't call him, of course. But she sent him a text message. A simple, "how r u?". His heart was racing. What was he doing that moment. He remembered now. He was sitting in his car on top of the little mountain near where he was living. He remembered being there alone, in the freezing cold of the night, looking at the sky. The car was off, so he could breathe in and smell the cold air. He was looking at the sky, and there were enough stars defying the light pollution to show some glimmer in the apathetic sky. He wasn't thinking about her, of course. That was about a month ago. He was thinking about something else. He couldn't remember now. He just remembered how fast his heart was racing when he saw her name appearing on the phone. She was back in the country, with the same phone number. He was back in the country too. Their roads had diverted to different countries, but they didn't know what the other's road had twisted through, at least he didn't know hers.
Thinking about it, though it had happened a month ago, his heart was racing again. Then his thoughts were interrupted by the stopping of the train. The train had arrived in the last stop before going express into the city. If she didn't board on this train, then she might be waiting for him at the platform in the city. But if not, he would be going home on yet another lonesome train. His heart continued its rapid throbbing. He wanted to turn to look behind him, wondering if she was coming the other way. But he didn't want to, somehow. Pride? Fear of looking desperate. And besides, "What does it matter now?" After a few exchanges, her last message was "the lines might cross on that 9:57 train to New York." She was still such a child. Still playing games at the age of 35. He couldn't even remember her birthday; she could be 36 now. But he understood what it meant. It had come this morning. After leaving the old Hindu man and his bird, she had joked that one day their lines might have to meet. It was possible that she was playing with him, still vengeful. Make him take the train for nothing.
But he woke up from his imagination. She wouldn't do anything so elaborate for him anymore. Such scheme he didn't deserve to be part of. She was probably already married. Moved on. It's been really long. Ten years was enough to heal all wounds, however deep. But he did it. It was easy. The worst that could happen was a slight disappointment and the cost of a roundtrip ticket plus four hours of his life. Four hours compared to four years of wild and unimaginable love. He imagined she would come up behind him, touch the nape of his neck and called his name, slowly, in a more mature voice. He imagined she looked all serious now, despite the game she was putting him through. But the feel of her hand on his neck. That made him feel sad. Maybe he hadn't completely forgiven himself.
They had crossed the state line, which somehow marked a new level of sorrow in his heart. The train was quiet again, just the humming of the machines. He looked out and saw more lights. The percentage of people going to sleep later was increasing. He imagined going back alone, without even an exchange of words with her, to his own bed and sleeping alone. It wasn't that he had imagined going home with her. Loneliness, like age, was a matter of the heart; if he could only say a word or two to her, he would go home, though alone, without that pesky feeling of loneliness. Her magic still held sway in him. He wasn't sure why, but he did.
"Excuse me, Sir," said a husky voice. It was a man's voice. He was startled, and for second he was quite confused and disoriented. He looked up and saw the conductor, the same young man. His ticket puncher was in its leather holster now. He was smiling at him and said, "This is for you." He handed kevin a folded piece of paper. Before he felt the touch of the paper his heart had quickly resumed its wild stallion's pace. He nodded, forgetting to say even thank you, but his bewilderment was enough for the conductor, who felt he had done something magnanimous on an otherwise uneventful night.
When the conductor, who had taken out his ticket puncher again to swing it like a gun, had disappeared behind the advertisements, Kevin unfolded the paper like a famished child opened a package of sweets.
"You've waited long enough. Come to the car behind you. Tell me how sorry you are."
He couldn't contain a giggle. He couldn't contain his tears. He couldn't contain his aging heart. He read it again and laughed out loud.
"It's that funny?"
He looked up, and the silence of the train resumed, just for a little while longer.
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