The Woman Who Rides the L Train
by corin wells
There's a woman who rides the L train. Everyday she gets off at the Wilson Ave. stop. My stop is after hers, so every evening I see her leave. I take notice because she’s always the last one to stand up and exit the train. I always think she’s going to forget to get off, but right before I get up the nerve to say, “Isn't this your stop,” she gets up and walks tentatively out of the door. I wondered for a while if she was homeless because she wears the same dress everyday. It's a faded canary yellow. Looks like Modcloth. It's probably Modcloth… unless she's homeless. Then it’s not Modcloth. But she’s wearing Maryjanes. It's Modcloth, for sure.
There's a woman who rides the L train. She isn't on the L train today. I wonder if she’s in a different car or if she didn't go to work. Does she work? Maybe she missed this train at her stop... Come to think of it, I never saw when she get on the train so… I’m not really sure what her stop is. I’m probably asleep every time she gets on. Why do I care so much? I don’t. I’m tired. I’m so tired. I’ll just rest my eyes.
9 stops. The sounds of people
6 stops. The screeching train
3 stops. The voice of the conductor….
1 stop. Silence.
How long was I asleep? Fuck, Did I miss my stop? It feels so cold.
Open your eyes!
There’s a woman who rides the L train. She is sitting right next to me. She looks at me with a cool, hollow smirk. I look away. There’s no one else in the train car. The train isn’t moving and the doors are open. Where are we?... Wilson Avenue. I've never noticed that cemetery. How long have we been sitting here? My phone is dead. How? After a moment, I ask...
“Isn’t this your stop?” my voice cracks. She smiles, touches my hand and whispers, “No, sweet child. It’s ours.”
There’s a woman who rides the L train. That woman is Death.