Thirteen
We buy 2nd class tickets, bottled water and peppermint bonbons on credit in a tiny kiosk next to the railway turntable. The housekeeper, finally free of heavy wool and starched collars, makes a little pirouette on the uneven cobblestones of the platform.
A shadow falls on me – the conductor, big and smelly in a stained uniform. I do my best to avoid his eyes as he hunches down and holds up his ticket punch in front of my face. The sun catches the chromed steel and blinds me, momentarily. “This better be good.” His voice is low and distorted, angry but powerless. He punches the air in front of me twice and is gone before the housekeeper even notices.
We travel by night only. The window next to me is dark and empty: an occasional street light in the distance is the only evidence of anything but void outside. I'm relieved to discover how numbingly cold the glass is: I lean in closer, try to expose as much of myself as possible as it freezes me, preserves me, makes me more insignificant.
Once I’m numb the housekeeper reaches inside and pulls something out. “Here. I'll trade you.” And she smiles with teeth too white and even to be real. “But you must promise me something worthwhile in return.” I look at what’s in her hands, and realize I have nothing.
Sensing my defeat, she leans back, crosses her legs and looks out the window. “The journey is always long. I just thought maybe it’d be a bit shorter for you.” Her voice is distant: she’s here but already leaving. The next time I look in her direction, she’s gone.