edith zimmerman

A very short story.

I saw him just as the train doors were closing. Tall, handsome, perfect. Our eyes locked.

“Wait,” he mouthed, raising a hand. “Don’t go!”

But it was too late. The doors had closed.

“Noooo!” I screamed, showering the inside of the door with spit as I tried to scratch it back open. “Someone open this piece of shit!” I shrieked. “Fucking open it!”

“Bing bing. Next stop, Union Square,” the conductor said, and the train lurched to life, leaving us with just a few precious seconds of eye contact left. Shrieking, I raced to the back of the train as it departed, shoving and trampling people as I held his gaze. He was perfect. Warm, chocolatey brown eyes. Tan skin. Ripped body. When there was no more train to run through, I gave him the most intense stare of my life, and then beat my head against the window hard enough that I cracked it. Blood rolled down my forehead, and it felt like tears.

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