Trained

Victyr raised the hand nearest the aisle without turning from the window. Outside, early morning fog blanketed the terminal, rendering travelers into a throng of bustling apparitions. He felt his ticket taken, heard the snick of it being punched, and waited for the same two words as it was returned to his hand.

“Pleasant journey.”

The familiar smells of coffee and bacon followed the conductor as he made his way through the car. His breakfast never varied, but the odor sometimes competed with that of the fabric softener his wife used. At least, Victyr assumed the man’s wife laundered his clothes. He wore a wedding ring, after all, and his collars were always starched.

Snick for the old guy with the musty suit. “Pleasant journey.”

Snick for the haggard, young woman. “Pleasant journey.”

And so it went. Twenty-seven regulars and a handful of occasionals. He knew all their stops; guessed all their stories. Each traveled alone.

Victyr often complained about the commute, but he could not imagine his life without the comfort of its routine. Each day, he crossed six stops to his destination, spent the day in a purgatory of his own creation, and returned in the evening to a house that wasn’t home.

He’d long since memorized the cadence of the tracks and the flicker of passing lights through the crimson curtain of his eyelids. His fellow passengers he knew by scent and by sight but not by name. Save one. An exception. They didn’t speak, but the camaraderie of shared silence cemented their bonds. Misery loved company.

By the time the train reached his stop, only he and Mrs. Martim remained onboard. They didn’t acknowledge one another until the last of the other passengers disembarked. To do so seemed to violate a code, of sorts. Each traveled alone.

At their destination, they often shared a cup of hot coffee and cold commiseration before parting ways for the day. Her situation mirrored his own. Neither could see any escape.

Victyr shrugged himself into his overcoat as he rose and collected an old briefcase. Stepping into the aisle, he paused to allow Mrs. Martim to precede him.

She sat two rows forward, on the opposite side. Her head was bowed, and she made no move to stand. He thought, perhaps, she’d fallen asleep.

Still loathe to speak, Victyr cleared his throat. No response.

After his second attempt failed to get her attention, he whispered, “Mrs. Martim, time to go.”

She turned then, eyes filled with tears. “I’m going on today, Victyr, to the end of the line.”

Speechless, he shook his head.

“Yes. It’s time.”

“I…” He reached for some words, any words. “Good luck, Mrs. Martim.”

She took his hand and pressed it to her cheek. “Thank you. Please, though, call me by given name. Just once. I won’t see you again unless…”

He looked down at the back of his hand and the sheen of her tears that sparkled upon it.

“Good luck,” his voice cracked, “Joy.”