The Ride
The Ride
Autumn leaves are funny things, he thought. They look their most beautiful when they’re dying. The opposite of humans.
“Autumn leaves are funny things,” he said.
“I heard you the first time,” she said.
“I said that out loud?”
“Yeah,” she tittered. “Can’t you hear yourself?”
He thought a bit and said, “I can hear my thoughts. I guess they sound like my voice.”
“Okay,” she said. “But can’t you tell the difference?” She obviously found this somewhat amusing.
He thought a bit more. “Did you hear that?”
“What?”
“I just thought something. Did you hear it?”
“No, what did you think?” She turned her head slightly to the left.
“I thought: You’re looking quite lovely today,” he said.
“Ah, nice try,” she said.
“What?” he said in mock surprise.
He looked out of the window to her left. Their station was above ground on the edge of the city. The trees were a golden orange hue, and the breeze was making them shimmer.
The subway car jostled them around momentarily, more than the normal amount of jostling, and he tilted to his right, and she tilted to her left. They were seated across from each other on those hard plastic seats that faced inward. They were alone in the car, which was a welcome surprise. Normally, there were anywhere between four and fourteen other people on their commute home.
“So what do your thoughts sound like?” he said when the car settled.
She looked directly into his eyes and said dryly, “Katharine Hepburn.”
He laughed. She liked his laugh; it was hearty and genuine. And she liked him, although he wasn’t exactly her type. She remembered the first time she saw him, getting on the Metro with his umbrella and backpack. It had been crowded that particular day because of the rain. She had found a seat; he stood. She stared at his hand gripping the support pole the entire trip, wondering what kinds of things that hand had gotten itself into. When was that? Three weeks ago? Oh right, it was her first day at the new job. After four years waiting tables and eight months answering phones for the numbers guy [accountant], she couldn’t believe she landed the position.
She glanced at her watch. He glanced at her legs. Nice legs, he thought.
“Oh, sorry,” he said quickly.
“For what?” she asked.
“Never mind,” he mumbled.
The car started to slow as the driver announced the next station in a crackly, incoherent mess of syllables. When the car came to a stop, four people got on, shuffled past them, and deposited themselves at the rear. She noticed every one of them had white earphones, wired or otherwise.
The car jostled them again as it started to move forward. She realized she had never seen him using a phone. Did he even own one? Maybe it’s the reason she liked him. She remembered he’d had a book a few times. It was a ratty, old paperback; she couldn’t see the entire title, The Wishing… something. She had noticed that he read it with a scowl on his face.
There was a brief silence then, except for the train’s rumble and someone talking on the phone in the back. He looked at a large scuff on his shoe and wondered what had caused it. She looked at his left hand, as she did each time she saw him.
“So. Married?” she said, finally attempting to confirm what she already knew, nodding toward his banded ring finger. He looked at his wedding ring and held up his right hand with three fingers poking upward.
“Three kids?!” she shouted, even though she knew he meant years.
“Three yea…” he started, but noticed she was grinning. “Ah, okay.” She laughed. He liked her laugh. It was warm and sincere.
He recalled the first time he noticed her on his way home. She was wearing a flowery dress—bright against a sea of blue jeans—and fluorescent yellow Chuck Taylor high tops. She carried a large handbag, presumably containing her “work shoes,” among the other myriad things women carry in their bags. As she sat down two seats up from him, she smiled warmly at a woman with her baby. When was that, a month ago?
Another stop, another unintelligible announcement. Six passengers got on, one got off.
“You?” he asked, wiggling his ring finger.
“Not yet,” she said, making the word ‘yet’ a three-note song, stretching it out for emphasis. Another broad smile. What could that mean? Boyfriend? Girlfriend? Fiancé? He decided not to press and nodded at her. No ring at least.
Maybe it was the way he was sitting—back straight, feet pointing right at her. Or maybe it was the way he tilted his head slightly when he was in thought. There was definitely something appealing about his mannerisms. She felt the same that first day when they both got off at their station, the last on the blue line. It had stopped raining, and he walked away, balancing his umbrella on the tip of his finger. And he was whistling. Whistling! Who whistles anymore? Maybe she was attracted to his happiness.
Stop number three. Two on, three off.
“What are you doing for dinner?” he asked. Her eyebrows arched, but she still wore the grin. “I’m not hitting on you. I was simply curious what you were planning on eating.”
“Hmm…” she began. “Probably make myself a salad with some French bread and a glass of wine.” She folded her arms. A body language expert would likely conclude she was wary of divulging too much personal information and subconsciously protecting herself. Actually, she was merely a little chilly.
“Doesn’t your boyfriend cook for you?” he said. He rubbed the stubble on his chin.
“Who said I had a boyfriend?” she countered, and there was her playful smile again. He could live inside such a warm and inviting smile. He had seen it again a couple of days after her encounter with the mother and baby. That one was a warm, joyful smile; the one he remembered now happened after she almost ran into the support pole, hurrying to a seat as the car pulled into motion. An old man wearing a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap had said with a wink, “Careful, young lady,” and she smiled at him, indicating she could be a klutz sometimes. He recalls this affably because, without meaning to, he had chuckled out loud at the exchange between the old man and the pretty young woman. She had noticed this and stuck out her tongue at him with a crinkled-up face.
“Your wife at home cooking your dinner?” she asked. He smiled, thinking this was more a joke than an actual question, but it was an upside-down smile. When his wife died thirteen months prior, the disease had weakened her sufficiently, and the unsuccessful “treatment” finished her off. It had slowly changed her complexion from rosy to gray, like an unwelcome end to a sunset.
The train stopped again; one passenger got on and sat near the door, and most of the rest departed.
“So where do you work?” he asked.
“I work in the Paige building, the one with the big fish sculpture in front,” she said. “You?”
“I’m over on 14th.” She nodded and asked what he did there. He told her, and she told him about her job. He decided he liked her voice and enjoyed listening to her talk.
He recalled the time she was late one afternoon and almost missed the train home. She bustled through the doors a second before the chime. Was it last week or the week before? She plopped herself down in the exact seat she sat in now, flustered with a couple of shopping bags in addition to her large purse.
She looked at him, already seated, two rows back, and made a that-was-close face. She said, “Hi,” and blew out a long breath through pursed lips and pushed a lock of hair back behind her ear.
He said, “Hi, glad you could make it,” and they shared a friendly laugh. So those were their first words spoken to each other. She decided she liked his dry sense of humor, not the pull-my-finger variety her brothers were fond of. He started to read his book, but he didn’t turn a single page.
She now looked at the scuff on his shoe and wondered what caused it. He looked at her pretty, blonde hair. He wanted to tell her that he honestly did think she looked lovely today, but the thought remained in his head, voiceless.
After a few more stops, they were once again alone in the car. The next stop was theirs—the end of the line.
“Hey,” he said. “Do you like cookbooks?”
“Sure. Why?” she said.
“Oh, I thought I should get rid of some. Or all. I mean, if you’re interested,” he said.
“How many do you have?” she said.
He shrugged, frowning a little. “I don’t know, maybe twenty or so. They’re all in pretty good shape.”
“Well, I could take one or two,” she said. “Thanks.”
“Great. I’ll bring two on Monday with a list of the others.”
“Why are you…”
The crackly announcement came over the speaker, interrupting her, and he quickly said, “Hey, this is us.” They gathered their belongings and headed out.
At that moment, eighty feet up and forty yards to the east, the golden leaf embarked on its roller-coaster ride, releasing itself from its parent tree, and began its death spiral to earth.
As they walked from the station to the sidewalk, there was an oh-by-the-way-I’m and a name, followed by an oh-hi-right-I’m and another name. A semi-awkward handshake was introduced and completed, and that was when they first touched.
They certainly didn’t need to continue looking at each other for several more seconds, but they did. The leaf, determined to complete its journey in a timely manner and create a little fun while at it, aided by a late October breeze, landed in a conspicuous spot, right between a scuffed shoe and a yellow sneaker.
He picked up the leaf and held it in a shaft of brilliant afternoon sunlight, making it gleam in gold and yellow. He held the stem and turned it between thumb and finger, causing a mild hypnotic effect on the young woman.
“Have a nice weekend,” he said, handing her the leaf.
“Oh, thanks, you too,” she said, accepting his gift.
He turned and walked one way; she, the other, both advancing thoughtfully to their respective homes. Between her footsteps, she heard him begin to whistle, and she smiled.
She stopped and looked back at him, then spun the golden leaf between thumb and finger, precisely as he had, making it dance in the sunlight, full of life and full of hope.
Autumn leaves are funny things, she thought.
