Like every morning, with my back resting on the cold white tiles of the station, I wait for the subway to arrive. It’s five to eight.
People pile up on the platform. Since the strike began, it has been difficult to get to the sites on time, delays reach twenty minutes and nervousness increases with each minute of delay. With sleep still between my eyelids, I try to isolate my mind from the outside and immerse myself in thoughts that, although empty of content, allow me to maintain calm and concentration.
A distant roar announces that the train is about to enter the station. Then everyone approaches the edge of the tracks to gain access before the rest and hopefully find a place to sit. That doesn’t worry me, I stand under the information sign, since my experience in using public transport tells me that one of the wagon doors will coincide at that point. We climbed up and, crammed together, started the march between abrupt sways and head-butting. Those who read the free ones pause to fan themselves while emitting forced sighs to convey their discomfort.
The mechanical voice of a young lady announces the next stop and it is at that moment that all the dream disappears, the senses become alert, I begin to sweat, but not because of the heat and I hear the heartbeat hitting my chest with energy.
As the train stops and the blurred figures of the people on the platform become sharp, I look at the window in front of me, expecting to see a fleeting flash, an unexpected glow, confirming that three doors to the right of where I am , you will be getting on the train.
The thickness of the people prevents me from making eye contact with you, but I can feel your presence without needing to see you. I know that you will sit by a window, resting your head on it and remain silent, looking into the darkness of the tunnel through the glass where your spectrum is reflected.
I know that on your knees there will rest a bag to match your shoes, that you will wear pearl earrings inspired by your smile, your hair collected and an elegantly open shirt, where you will wear an accessory.
But despite knowing all these things, what is most important to me is still unknown: the content of your thoughts. Being able to know if I have ever wandered through them. Many times I have tried to penetrate your mind, try to find some involuntary gesture, perhaps an unusual blink or a brief lengthening of the corners of your lips, that could give me some reference and help me to configure complex assumptions and fantastic theories, completely remote of reality.
In this exercise of inquiry, the stations go by, the traffic of people does not stop and the time to say goodbye is approaching. It will be a farewell without words, or looks, or gestures of any kind, but with the simple sensation that the distance between our hearts increases, that the magical light that you give off begins to dim, and that once again I lost another opportunity to tell you something, maybe a brief ‘hello’ or a daring ‘I’ll wait for you tomorrow at the same time on the same train’. But what if tomorrow I don’t find you as usual? There are fewer and fewer trains left.
And from the still insurmountable distance that separates us, I wonder what esoteric spell or malicious hypnosis you have applied on me, so that I believe that you are every girl that turns the corner, so that wherever she goes there will always be someone who names you even if you are not there and so that all the songs I listen to always remind me of you.
‘Today that you are not here, I am going to invent the ending,
you came back and we did not separate any more, it
is my song, I do not have to tell the truth’
