Mini Story: Basic space.

Hollow percussion pulses through wires to my ears. They are veins to my heart.

I’m tired, not yet awake.

It’s 6:17am in the middle of October. It’s dark, not yet dawn, and I’m hurtling towards San Francisco up age old tracks.

He sits down across from me, facing me.

The rain falls on the black bay, and on my window, dragging the street lights down by the individual drop.

Thump. Thump.

That xylophone moves with deliberate motions: With my earphones in I’d never know if he said a word.

The train rushes us forward but the moment is stopped, confined.

His knees brush mine as he sips his coffee. No one sits next to someone else so close on a train this empty.

Our moment is sacred in that it hasn’t started. My eyes haven’t met his yet but I catch glimpses of his sturdy, suited reflection.

Through the window.

The roll of the train, the softness of the rain, the darkness of dawn.
The virginity of having not yet broken the sacred seal of eye contact is more than I can bare.

Thump thump.

Red lights move in downward motion.


It is your stop.

You stand and disappear into the rain: All before the sun had a chance to turn the pitch black sky to a dark, wet gray.


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