The Stranger on the Train

Something is wrong. There is a stranger in the back of the train. Someone I have never seen before. Sitting alone, among all the daily commuters I see every day. Perhaps I never noticed him before. Though he has a distinct look I would have noticed. His face is smooth and there is not a hair on his head, not even a brow or lash. He wears a round brim hat that would at times obstruct his rubbery face. A black leather briefcase sits on his lap. The stranger is looking at me, and I freeze. His gaze is impassive. I feel as if I should look away but can’t. A man walks between us and obstructs our view. When he passes, the stranger is looking straight ahead, seemingly at nothing. I am uneasy. I hope the stranger gets off the train soon. 

Minutes pass and the crowd thins, yet the stranger remains seated in the back. I try to distract myself from the stranger. I watch the other commuters. I know them all by face, but do not know their names. I observe them every day. I know what kind of books they like, even though sometimes they cover the title with paper, I still know. The man at the end of the car has a tendency to rub his nipples while reading romance novels. I know who is married with children by the look of frustration as they travel home. The woman by the door has three children, one of which is with her today, the purple lines looming below her eyes like an overcast day. I know the man sitting closest to me has been having an affair as he slips the ring from his finger each time before exiting. I occupy myself by keeping track of whose stop it is, and the woman who is sexually frustrated just missed hers. The man across from me reads a book called How to Change. He really needs more than self-help if he is to ever get over his Oedipus complex. I stare out the window for a little while. In the reflection of the window, I see the stranger looking at me again. I try to ignore it. There’re only two stops left. I really hope the stranger gets off the train soon. 

I watch the man who eats too much. He furrows his brow and smirks, thinking of what passive aggressive thing he could say to his wife when he gets home. The woman standing by the door yanks her child’s hand. The child is looking as if to ask if it gets better than this. It doesn’t. I cough loudly to startle the dozing man; the next stop is his. The train is nearly empty: only one stop left, and the stranger is still here. There is little to distract me now. I wish the stranger would get off the train sooner. I stare out the window, trying not to notice the stranger looking at me. I see telephone poles, their wires dipping back and forth like hill tops as we speed by. I see the gray sky in the distance. I see the trees and try to think of all the animals and creatures that live inside them, how they burrow into the wood to sleep at night. But the thought always comes back and tells me to look. I turn and his eyes are burrowing a hole into me.

I don’t like the stranger. I don’t. I don’t like him. Please go away, I don’t like you. My skin begins to cry, I hate when my skin cries, it’s okay skin, the stranger will leave soon. There is a screeching like a cry to rouse me from my thoughts. I thought it was me, but it’s just the train coming to a halt. I’m happy I didn’t screech. I hate when I do that. I glance to make sure the stranger hasn’t moved before shuffling quickly towards the door. Stupid smelly man, move. The doors, they won’t open. Oh, please. The stranger is standing, please, please, doors open. Oh, thank God! The doors slide open with a whine from the track. I rush onto the platform, staggering in my steps as I push through a man and woman holding hands on the platform. The woman scoffs about me being rude. I’m sorry, but she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know about the stranger. I turn my head and see him. He’s looking at me. Help. Help. My fast stumbling walk turns into a sprint. Need to get away. My feet slap against the brick of the platform as I run and throw open the door to the station house. The large dome above echoes my footsteps as my limbs flail. It’s late, no people here. The station is empty. No one can help me.