Tunnel of Silence

They are standing in the train, shoulder to shoulder. They don't even touch each other. She took a book out of her bag. She's hardly keeping her equilibrium. Behind her, he could very well read over her shoulder, but her white skin, her naked nape are in his way. The small, scarlet mark, stretching down. His hand, far from her neck. Her neck, her white, scarlet stained nape. Her naked nape, his hand, his fingers.

She's reading. A seat becomes free, and she slowly approaches it. So many people standing, only one seat available. One step only, with her long coat, and everybody stops what is this strange woman doing here. If she wants to sit, everybody stops. Awaiting.

I saw in the window, for a second, an empty seat. I could read more comfortable. I come close to it, and the train seems to stop for one second. I know nothing. That tall expat seemed to be reading over my shoulder. It's hot in here. My nape is on fire. What is he doing in here? What am I doing? I'm reading. The book slides on the rails. Actually, no, there is no poetry. I took the subway today, I'm taking the subway to read. My short stop on the way home. The chestnut trees are blooming. Right in front of my office window. The letters crowded one into the other. And the lilac, my mother loves lilacs, says Eve, and I wonder how can you like your mother. 8 miles come to my mind when I'm thinking about my mother. Cleaning out my closet. But not anymore. And I am not even sorry. The lilac. Eve buying lilac on the window of the car. There is no poetry in my life. And I never talk about mother. Words one into each other, packed, there is never silence inside unless I scream.

He sat by her side. He passed his station, actually he was going only for one station. He never saw her face, he only keeps in the nostrils the smell of her short hair. She's still reading. He could learn Romanian reading over her shoulder, if it wasn't for her stained nape. Scarlet over white. White. Her hand on the book. The words, in an endless madness. Death squeaking on the rails. Her book, her white neck. How far can one get?

Page after page. My moment before smelling again the lilac, the chestnut trees, the iron and the plastic and the people in the subway. The letters. And the blackberry vibrating in my bag. You're a gadget girl, says Dan. I, don't. And everybody else around me, all the figures that I so well remember, and the gipsy florist, who nailed her with her eyes she doesn't need buying flowers but it's good she sees us, she knows us we are here, and the high school teenager with his hair in a pony tail, stumbling in the wings of her large coat. And all the people that she sees, that see her and step through her, and all these in the book that she's reading. And all of the sudden she realizes she never got off, she's at the end of the line.

She forgot to get off. Only now she can tell. The words and the images coming into her mind, all together, almost knocking her down. She forgot to get off, and now her long fingers wander on the book's cover, trying to stay calm. In his mind, he's gently whispering stay, barely touching her skin with his lips.

And the shiny, blue cover of the book. She heard well enough, it's the end of the line. And the train suddenly stopping, the light slowly fading. She's thinking how nice would that be I forgot to get off I was reading and didn't know where all this comes to an end. And everything blowing in the air, and I was not suppose to be here. With this expat touching my neck with his lips, with him witnessing my fingers talking about mother's lilac. Eve's mother. And the train starting to move again, and then sparks. Darkness gathering around. Stay. Rage bursting into the tunnel.

And the train stops. The wings of her long, large, blue coat. Stay.