A man and woman sit across from each other, sipping their coffee and waiting for their train. They have followed this routine for so long now that they simply do not remember when their paths first intertwined. In these brief interactions between 7:45 and 8:10 each morning, there is a kind of familiarity; a connection created by a space meant solely to leave. Eventually, the train will come and shepherd them to the city like lamb to their various cubicles and coworkers, a mindless cycle of coffee and secret cigarettes, and then they will wait to go home so they can wake up and do it all again tomorrow. 

The mystery is what they find so compelling about the other’s presence. Before them is a person whose voice they have never heard and whose name they will never know, yet they have memorized every mannerism and mapped every freckle on the other’s face. Neither knows that this moment, those kind nods of hello and goodbye, are the highlight of the other’s day and frankly, they both refuse to admit it to themselves. This fictitious one-sided affection is what makes it so endearing. There is a sort of comfort in the sameness of a stranger whom you know nothing about, and therefore, can never disappoint you. 

Their routine, though simple, is never tedious. Timed to the second, forever on point, it is a deja vu type of moment trapped between lingering glances and espresso shots. 

The woman is 34 and suffering from a viral baby fever brought on by the growing families of her sorority sisters. As she watches the man, she imagines a cookie-cutter suburban life; a picket fence, a pretty 50s housewife, kids playing in the yard. In her mind, he is the kind of man who hosts dinner parties filled with self-righteous, over confident laughter and clinking wine glasses. She knows that his wife never has to take the train. 

She doesn't realize that she is projecting her dreams onto the blank slate of a man she sees more consistently than her own boyfriend (who she promised her girlfriends she’d leave tomorrow a million tomorrows ago.) 

While she imagines this, he sees the epitome of an independent woman. The one who lives alone not because she has no one to share her life with, like him, but because she chooses to. In his mind she has achieved a level of self-fulfillment and confidence in the life she has built for herself that lets her be completely confident in her own skin. This woman, a perfect repetition of pinned-up hair and pencil skirts, has become a grounding staple in his life. So consistent that he finds himself searching her appearance for something, anything just a little different. A hair out of place in her tight bun, a smudge in her cherry red lipstick, a coffee stain on her white button-down blouse. 

It is these things he looks for that she lists as her reasons to hate herself. The pimple on her chin that only worsens when she tries to hide it in cakey foundation, the frizz of her hair in the strange midwestern humidity. 

While she chokes on imaginary impurities, he longs for them. Lost in a sea of his own feelings of inadequacy, these gentle reminders of humanity are the lighthouse he hopes will guide him to some sort of peace. 

Monday through Friday, between 7:45 and 8:10, two strangers see flawlessness in each other. They have created impossible characters they know better than themselves in people they do not know the faintest truth about. It is the manifestation of everything their heart longs for but their soul can never find. It is the human urge to see aching beauty in anything and everything and simultaneously the human inability to see the slightest bit of it in yourself. 

Because if they are suddenly happy with what they are, there will be nothing to keep the trains running. 

The ground shakes. The woman stands and, with a glance at the man trailing behind her, decides not to sit in the quiet car today. The man follows her, and she holds the door for him. Just as they had a few moments before, two strangers sit across from each other. 

“I’m Eleanor.” 

He shakes her hand, mesmerized by the sparkle in her hazel eyes. “Emmett.” 

“Emmett.” The name tastes sweet on her tongue. “It is so nice to finally meet you.” 

They both smile. Emmet realizes that in the months they’ve sat across from each other, he has never seen her smile. He also realizes that she has the most beautiful smile in the entire world. 

The sun shines through the window, and suddenly, the day doesn’t seem so dull. They talk the whole way, exchanging stories and jokes and laughter, only stopping when the train finally does. Emmett takes on his trek to work with a new spring in his step, a warmth in his heart that he didn’t remember. Eleanor walks from the station to her office building, her cheekbones aching, but she can’t wipe the stupid grin from her face. 

It sticks with her all day, and for the first time in years, she doesn’t dread tomorrow.

Gillian Rosen