Backseat and conscious.
It’s a fight to stall. Act your age.
One.
His leg spasms as he sleeps with a crossword in his right hand.
Time is so self destructive.
With no intent or motive.
Behind his eyes, he wonders; he dreams about the life he doesn’t have.
He wakes and reality soon sets in. Six letters across. He got it. One by one he fills the boxes with a guess until his eyes feel heavy once more. What’s the rush? He has all night. He’s already asleep.
Two.
A half-empty coffee sitting on my lap. It’s hours old. The refreshingly cold wind fills the cabin and slowly, the somber looks of every passenger reminds me that winter is close. The evening train is nothing but sadness. A funeral in transit.
Three.
Romance. He writes her love letters. Smeared ink across the sheets and doodles to remind her he’s real. It isn’t about hope, it’s just about faith. An invisible confidence possesses him to continue. She doesn’t understand why. He was wrong to ever start.
Unanswered questions and unopened letters. He knows of nothing else. It’s his routine that has spoiled their relationship. He must.
Four.
…
