The train is packed.
6:30 p.m., to be exact.
Commuters disembark.

A seat at a table,
I spy.
I sit.

The girl—she’s young.
A rail card at the back of her phone.
Her eyelashes thick with glue.
Like a baby doll,
with eyes of a doe.

A bottle of Coke—
she sniffs.
She’s tired.

A festival, perhaps?
But the Crocs on her feet say no.

The man next to her—good-looking.
Much older.
Maybe her young dad.

Greying hair, a silver fox.
A can of Monster in hand.

His eyes barely open—
they’re red.
He coughs,
and reaches gently
for her leg.

They play-fight for a moment.
His remark:
“You’re being weird today.”

She rests her head
in her arms
on the table.

He closes his eyes,
unfazed.

Her sniffing is soft and gentle—
as is the ‘blankie’ she holds.
Worn down to its innards.
Grey, battered, and old.

Her eyes—wet.
His eyes—closed.

Between apathy and sleep,
he reaches out quietly
to her.

But she shirks him.

He sends a text.
She throws down her phone.

The phone rings.
Caller ID: Dad.

He clears off.
“See ya around.”

She answers:
“My phone was in my bag.”
“I’ll be home soon.”

Power and control.
Naivete and innocence.
A good match—
they always make.

---

Marginalia

My great-grandmother was 16
when she had her first child.
Her partner — my great-grandfather — was 48.

I explore these dynamics more fully in It Began With a Name.