A Fiction: Part II

I realize sitting on this train is the first time I’ve relaxed since I left it this morning. I got to my work building almost an hour later than expected. The lobby was nearly empty as I exited the revolving door. My steps echoed on the marble floors and walls as the receptionist greeted me.

“He’s waiting for you.”

“Thanks.”

I entered the elevator and pressed the button to my floor. Alone, I checked myself in the crisp chrome walls. Sharply dressed as always, but my eyes gave away the stress I was feeling. I took several deep breaths to clear my head. A mist of sweat appeared on my brow, but it was due more to the uncomfortable temperature than the tension in the air. Since air conditioning limits started being enforced a few years back, elevator travel has become most frowned upon. Normally I take the stairs, but being late there was no other option. The lift slowed and the doors slid open.

What followed was a nightmarish comedy of frustration and machismo that ultimately left me jobless and satisfied. The details aren’t worth retelling here but quickly put, my supervisor was indeed waiting for me with the agenda to cut my position. He’s been hard on me for some time, and my lateness and missed deadline were the justification he was waiting for.

I resolved myself early on that I would not be fighting for my position. I spent the balance of the day cleaning out my desk and locker, saying goodbye to coworkers and calling my clients in hopes of preserving relationships for independent work. Now back on the train, it seems foolish to have done so. I won’t be in that line again.

The message screens on the wall flicker to life with a photo of a small boy's eyes with

WHEN YOU SHOW VIOLENCE, THEY SEE VIOLENCE. STOP THE VIOLENCE

printed over them. Fucked up world.

I guess I’ll just tell her I’m leaving. She has been becoming more and more distant since her father passed. Once her sisters went home after the service, she would sit for hours in the chair, lights off, alone. I tried to get through to help her, but she pushed me away. A hand on her shoulder was brushed away. A kind word produced tears at best; anger at worst. But she stays nonetheless – more out of habit than need. I don’t think she has thought of me since he died. Hardly notices. I wonder if she’ll cry. I wonder if she’ll even know I'm there.

The train is stopping now. I consider calling before I get too close to home; see if she needs anything. Fuck it. Clean and easy will be better. I’ll walk in, tell her quickly, grab a few things and go. I loved her once. I would’ve killed for her. Now I feel cold towards her.

As I reach the street surface and the harsh neon lights from all sides, I breathe deep the air I always hope will be fresh when I come out of the train station. But it’s nearly as stale as the air below, just not as still. It moves as the throng of people breathe and the vehicles swirl it around. I hate the crowds here. I can’t walk the two blocks from the stairwell to the building where we live without being brushed and shoved and pushed. I crave open space and clean air. The sea. I crave the sea.