Train fragment

The train smells of feet and tuna salad. I sit in the left aisle seat. I look at humans around me; each plunged in the world that their phone or laptop has to offer. Except for the shining, bright hazel eyes in front of me. Dressed in black, he sits in the opposite seat four rows in front. His long hair is pulled into a bun and he sits there observing the people around him just like I was doing. When our eyes meet, the second of connecting the gaze lasts more than one second. The eyes speak without words. I look away as I can’t handle the intensity of his gaze. Then I look back and our looks hold hands again: as if we are playing a game of clasping hands then releasing them into the air. He has a big, black bag next to him so I reckon that he’s a traveler going to the airport- the last stop of this line. Things happen so fast and the next thing I realize that I have to get off at the next stop, so I start to gather my stuff and collect myself that has become scattered around before him. It takes me a minute and maybe more. I walk up to him and ask him for his name. Then I add that I enjoyed this lovely, random encounter and ask him for his phone number. I walk past him, and millions of light years spann as I walk to the end of the isle, forgetting that other people are staring at me so hard that I can feel the guey eyes sticking on my skin.

None of that happened. 

I walk till the end of the aisle forgetting the part of myself that walks up to him and turns the potentiality of life into an actuality. But that never happened. This never keeps coming up: but I believe precisely because there’s an open end to it, lack of closure of a moment. It’s as if time moves by opening moments and closing moments, and this moment with this pretty stranger is never closed. He’s still somewhere in this big world living his life and maybe this moment comes up to him, but it’s not closed. It’s bothering me that it’s not closed, as my inner OCD kicks in to fix things by closing ends, knotting loose ropes and securing doors and hatches. My inability to do so is annoying and fascinating. I cannot do anything about it, and I can surrender now to something bigger than myself: time, the other, the smell of the train and the sun beams lurking between the folds of the curtains.