L.A. Woman
By Augusto Corvalan
I was alone. She was alone.
She tossed back her hair from her face with a gloved hand but it fell forward again. She sighed and rested her chin on her hand. The corners of her mouth curled down as she stared at the floor. She reminded of a child who had been put in a timeout in the corner of the room.
The subway station was deserted, forgotten newspapers slithering across the concrete floor. People aboveground walked across the entrance and their long shadows filled the tiny station.
She looked at her watch. Was she expecting someone? Then she looked at me. I didn't have time to look away. She had looked right into my eyes for a fraction of a second. She knew I had been watching her but she didn't seem to care.
I wanted to say something. Anything. I wanted to get up and sit next to her. To comfort her and make her smile.
I would tell her a joke. She would try not to laugh, but she would anyway. I would notice her cute little dimples and I would flash a grin.
I would ask her what she did for a living. She would have a quirky job, an interior designer. I would act surprised, saying that I'd never met an interior designer before. She would crack up again and playfully hit my arm.
We would be sitting very close. Her breath wouldn't smell of synthetic mint, but of the blueberry muffin she'd had fifteen minutes ago. She would check her watch again and remark that her train should be due any minute. I would panic, knowing that I might lose her forever.
I would try several times to ask her out, urging myself to just say the words. Every time I would fail, I would curse myself with the foulest language. Then I would just spit it out.
She would look surprised but with a hint of pleasure. She would take out a neatly printed business card. It would be written in pink ink, which I would adore. Then the train would come and whisk her away. I would sit back, feeling content, feeling fulfilled.
She looks like the loneliest person in the world. She is tapping her leather boot impatiently. I'm not looking at her anymore, just her reflection on a shiny poster. She's biting her lower lip, looking around.
I would call her the next day, just to show her that I don't abide by dating rules. But I would call her at night, so I wouldn't seem too desperate. I would add her to my cell phone directory. Then, as my cell phone vibrated like an epileptic child, I would see her name and I would picture her smiling, waiting for me to pick up.
We would have coffee at noon. We would go to an eccentric coffee place she knew in the Village. I would order hot cocoa and she would tease me about it. She would order coffee, black, no sugar. She would be wearing a blue scarf she had knitted herself.
We would talk forever. We would be smiling and laughing. The man working at the counter would look at us and feel happy just by basking in our joy.
She's crossing her legs now. I sigh loudly, just to remind her I'm still here. Her lips are the palest red. They don't have a definite border, they just seem to fade into her skin, like smudged paint.
Maybe she would say something to me. She wouldn't be expecting much of an answer from me, just to relieve the boredom. I would say something witty, perhaps a quote. She would laugh and look at me with astonishment, like a cat being lured with some fluff. She would ask me something else, this time with a wide smile on her face. Her body would lean towards mine. She would lick her pale lips.
The subway station is filled with light, defining our shadows even more. There's a dull roaring sound, like a tired beast. The subway slips its way into the station as if in a great hurry.
She's getting up.
I would stop her.
The sound of her boots reverberates throughout the station in a hypnotic rhythm.
She would hear me just as she is getting into the subway.
She is crossing the threshold into the deserted train.
She would slip her card through the crack of the doors.
She's finding a good seat, inspecting them like a public health official.
I would take it just as the subway whooshed away.
With a groan, the subway leaves the station.
I am alone.
Augusto Corvalan has been writing for many years now, and has been published in numerous magazines and e-zines, including Potluck Literary Magazine, Flashshot, Journal & Courier, , AlienSkin Magazine, AntipodeanSF, Six Sentences, MicroHorror, Teen Ink and many others. Augusto moonshines as a student and lives in West Lafayette, Indiana , U.S.A.