quietly

It seemed like we'd been the only ones on the subway platform for half an hour, and no trains had come, except one that left just as we arrived. We were quiet--what was there to say? The evening was done. It was time to go home. Once or twice she asked, "Is the train even coming?" and I assured her it was, though I had no idea. I never learned schedules.

There were things I wanted to say, and from the glances she thought I didn't notice, things she wanted to say--but we didn't. She kept quiet and bit her nails. I stared at one of the advertisements, proclaiming that Microsoft was "the software giant, without the giant part." We mostly avoided looking at each other.

"I don't think it's coming," she said, and I shrugged. She was probably right, of course. "Do you want to get a cab? Do you have cash for a cab?"

I didn't. "It's a long walk, too, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it's a ways." She sighed. It was looking increasingly like we were facing the prospect of another four or five hours together. "Listen," she said.

"Yes?"

"Forget it," she said.

The train came at last. We didn't talk the whole ride back, but eventually our eyes met and we smiled, and for the first time since we'd reached the station I was glad she was there.