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 said.
“I thought: You are very pretty 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 just then, more than the normal amount of jostling. They were seated across from each other on those hard, plastic seats that face 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, "Katherine Hepburn."
He laughed. It was hearty and genuine. She liked his laugh. 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 was very crowded that 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? That’s right, it was her first day at the new job. After four years of 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 that she had never seen him using a phone. Did he even own one? Maybe that's why she liked him. She remembered he had had a book a few times. It was a ratty, old paperback, she couldn't see the entire title, The Wishing something. He read with a scowl on his face, she had noticed.
There was some 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 every 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 then saw her 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. She smiled warmly at a woman with her baby as she sat down two seats up from his. 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 did 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. Maybe it was the way he tilted his head slightly when he was in thought. There was something about him she liked. 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 just curious what you were going to eat.”
“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 just 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 that playful smile again. He could live in that smile. He had seen it again a couple days after that first encounter with the baby and mother. 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 set in motion.
An old man wearing a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap had said with a wink, “Careful, young lady,” and she smiled at him indicating that she can 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 of 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, almost missing the train home. She bustled through the doors just 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 had 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 really did think she looked nice 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, just wanted to 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 very good shape."
“Well, I could take one or two. Thanks,” she said.
“Great, I’ll bring two on Monday and a list of the others.”
“Why are you…”
The crackly announcement came over the speaker just then, and he said, “Hey, that’s us.” They gathered their belongings and headed out.
At that moment, eighty feet up and forty yards to the east, the golden leaf began its roller-coaster ride, releasing itself from its parent tree, beginning 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 really didn't need to remain looking at each other for several extra seconds, but they did. The leaf, determined to complete its journey in a timely manner, and have 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 the leaf.
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 spun the golden leaf between thumb and finger, just as he had, making it dance in the sunlight, full of life, and full of hope.
Autumn leaves are funny things, she thought.