A Brief Encounter On The 97

It never fails, after half an hour or so sitting in coach, I reach the point where I can't handle the chatter going on around me. So, I grab my bag and head for the club car. My usual table is open. I drop my gear, set up my computer, get on the Internet and head for the bar. I order the usual, double Bloody Mary, spicy. I hadn't noticed the woman seated across from me, on the other side of the aisle, until she got up and set down directly across from me at my table. Very attractive, maybe in her late 50s or early 60s, with very expressive eyes and a face that would still turn heads.

“Hi, I hope I'm not interrupting.”

“Not at all, trains jumping around so much on this track that it makes it almost impossible to work on the computer anyway. I’m David. Call me Dave. Where are you heading to?”

“New York. I’m Allison.” She smiles at me; Beautiful white teeth. She smells fresh-scrubbed and clean and very well dressed. “And you?”

“Orlando.” I smile back.

She extends her hand; we shake.

She glances at the computer. “So what are you working on?"

"I write short stories and sometimes some very very short stories called flash fiction and some Haiku."

I like her immediately; intelligent eyes and a demeanor that is attractive.

“That's wonderful! Is it a short story? What’s the title?

“Short story. 'A Brief Encounter On The 97’.”

“The 97? Wait a minute. Isn't this train the 97?”

“It is. I ride this train all the time looking for stories.”

“So you're waiting for an incident that you can write about?”

“Yeah! And, I can't seem to get it started. Writers Block, I guess”

"Something will come up; it always does.”

“I hope so. get's frustrating after a while."

“Well, today is my anniversary. Twenty-five years now. My husband is flying back to New York. We have a condo on the beach in Miami, for the winters. John had to get back to finish up some details at work. He insisted that we fly, but I decided to take the train. I needed time to think and you know how planes are; planes and airports, with all the noise and congestion and the waiting in endless lines, and then, before you know it you're there. So, I told him go ahead and fly, I'll take the train and meet him in the city.”

“Well, Happy anniversary!” I've never been big on anniversaries, but I smile and wish her one.

“Thank you! I wish it were a happy anniversary. But, after 25 years, it could be a lot happier.”

I finish my Bloody Mary. I could sense she wanted to talk, and I wouldn’t mind the company. “I’m getting another; would you like one? I make them spicy, with double vodka."

“Actually, that sounds perfect. Here, let me give you some money."

“No, don't worry about it. I've got it”

Returning, I hand her the glass. ”Cheers!"

“Cheers!” Sipping the Bloody Mary she almost chokes. "Oh my god, that’s spicy!"

We laugh.

“I told you, but you'll get used to it."

Serious now, she glanced down at her hands, holding the drink, and began to talk about her marriage. It was like a dam bursting after too much rain. I listened. It wasn't any kind of what you might call a sob story. Not by any means, but I could tell that those years of marriage had more unhappy moments than happy ones. They married young, and she had trusted and loved as much as anyone, and in those early years, they had loved and laughed and prospered. Then, as years slid by, her husband's business demanded more and ever more of his time. Big house, on the ocean, in the Hampton's. Maids that took care of all the daily household chores, and all the rest that goes along with money, left her without much to do with her time. She began feeling very lonely, and very empty. Yet, there were happy moments and enough of them to keep her in the marriage. And, from time to time, when her husband could spare time from work, they would spend a few days abroad; Ibiza was among her favorite places, but the trips there were far too short and infrequent to compensate for the long days spent trying to find meaning. Out of desperation, she did what most wealthy Hampton housewives did; she volunteered for charities, she donated time to help at the school for autistic children. She convinced her husband that they should start a foundation to fight homelessness. She did charity cake sales and charity parties. At first, all these things managed to keep her somewhat occupied. Still, the empty house, the dinners alone at that huge table with the great view of the ocean, only seemed the drive home the realization that she was basically, and for all intents, alone. She took up music; found some meaning there. Read incessantly, and in time built up an incredible library not only of books, but the various musical instruments, and began to find a little more meaning in Life. She told spoke about her children, whom she was very devoted to; all married now, on their own, with families to raise. She spoke of the joy she had derived from the years when the children were home. She had longed to be married, marrying her college sweetheart, and it had been a beautiful, expensive wedding attended by many of the New York elite. And what? After all these years, she was feeling helplessly trapped and didn't know what to do to free herself. She needed to catch her breath and think.

She looked up from her hands, her eyes were tearing; I passed her a napkin. She looked down again.

" I feel so invisible! I scares me."

“Cry, if you feel like.” Reaching out, I took her hands in mine. She held on tightly for a moment, then dried her eyes.

I wanted to comfort her somehow. She seemed so fragile, sitting there, trying to maintain her composure. I couldn't help thinking what a fool her husband was, and feeling a need to reach out and comfort this angel of a woman.

The 97 was rocketing along; making up lost time. The car swaying side to side; we sat in silence, listening to the sound of the tracks, lost in our own thoughts. Then....

“Orlando. Twenty minutes!” the conductor announces.

Taking her hands, again, “That’s me, my stop. Before I leave I want to say that you are a beautiful, intelligent and charming woman. Go home, speak with your husband; tell him how you feel. Any man married to a woman such as yourself would be a fool to chance losing you.” Her eyes were wet, again. The moment was an emotional one, for us both. Smiling, she dried her eyes.

We looked at each other, a slight smile crossing her lips.

“Thank you for your kind words, and for the drinks. I have really enjoyed spending this time with you. However, I have a confession to make before you go. My story, well, that’s all it was; just a story. I was married, once, a long time ago, and I did live, briefly, in the Hamptons, again, a long time ago. I don’t have any children. My name really is Allison; I teach drama at City College. I liked that you’re a writer and I liked the title of your story and I liked you. So, I made up the whole thing thinking it might make a good story; maybe give you some ideas. And, I thought it would be fun; help pass the time. It was a bit selfish of me. Hope you’re not offended.”

The 97 grinds to a stop; people jockey for position at the exit.

Grinning, I gathered my gear and reaching down, took her hand, and kissed it. We laughed together. I turned toward the door, then turned around for a final look; she was looking back; her eyes bright and compelling. She gave a little wave of her hand.

I waved back and I'm gone.

"Hello, Orlando!" Damn, I love this train!