Terminal Girl

Shoulder-length hair resting on a wool sweater, the deep shade of brown complimenting the dark blue dye and framing her pale face. Eyes always downcast, bent intensely over a novel, while pink-tipped fingers absently slip Oreos through quiet lips. A plain white shirt with a low-cut neckline peeks between the sweater's buttons. Blue-jeaned legs, always crossed, ending in nondescript tennis shoes.

Eyes look up, mine darting away. The pale blue reflects the early morning sunlight streaming through the wall of windows overlooking acres of concrete. Unpainted nails dip into the dark blue Jansport backpack at her feet, emerging to explore a denim pocket, retrieving a stick of lip balm in a green plastic tube. Eyes now staring calmly over the terminal, watching people passing without seeing them.

She is not beautiful, at least not in a way most would recognize. While not ugly, there is nothing in her features or figure to distinguish her as remarkable. Why, then, am I drawn so powerfully to her? She now sits across the aisle from me, ever engrossed in her novel. Close enough to touch, close enough to watch, close enough to hear. She dozes for short periods, her lashes gently falling on her pale cheeks. Safe from discovery, I look on her as she sleeps, attempting to understand this mysterious, complete fascination. It does no good, only serving to foster a desire to touch that brown hair, that porcelain skin, those slender hands.

Baltimore now, the plane falls silent. The chatter of the junior highers near the plane's tail grows audible. She withdraws herself from the printed words, glances out the window nearest me. I see again the pale blue before I retreat to the cabin floor at my feet. She leaves first, I follow a dozen people behind. I can't see her in the terminal, too far behind. Hiding off-center at the baggage claim, feeling overwhelmed in this strange airport, this strange city. The air is thick here. I see her blue sweater again across the way, her arm making a V to her ear, the top of a cell phone poking through the brown strands of hair. The sign proclaiming Baggage Claim Carousels 10 and 11 hides her from view. At least, I think that's what it says. The bags come, a drab mix of dark colors. My small Concourse rolls onto the carousel. My satchel slung over my shoulder, I quickly dart in, grab it, and evacuate. The crowd hides her as I leave the area in search of a ride.

I never see her again.

Waking Tracks

The young man studied the orderly pattern of steel, wood, and gravel beneath his navy blue lo-tops. The remains of a beer bottle winked at him in the late morning light, its contents long since passed through the guts of a nameless vagrant. A thousand trains had passed over these tracks since it had been delivered to this unseemly grave, bearing other stowaways to nowhere in particular.

He absently kicked at the broken brown glass, letting his thoughts stagnate on its gleaming edge. The soles of his shoes were wearing thin, and sharp rocks had pocked their shallow treads into patterns never conceived by the designers. His torn blue jeans and faded Velvet Underground T-shirt would have gotten him through the doors of any hipster party in the country. An ordinary grey duffel bag slung over his shoulder bore his faithful water bottle, several cans of beef jerky, and an extra pair of socks.

He wasn't a hobo. He had family, a few friends, a steady if uninteresting job, and a modest apartment in the low-rent district. He owned a TV and a mattress. Monday through Saturday, his routine was reliable. A casual observer would even say he was doing fairly well for a kid his age. After all, how many 18-year-olds have their own place? Most are still living with Mommy and Daddy or in a dorm somewhere receiving care packages twice a month. He was a step beyond that, even if he didn't have a university degree mounted on his wall in a handsome plastic frame. Monday through Saturday, he was a productive member of society.

Sundays were different.

Railroad tracks had always mesmerized him, even as a kid. A line had run not far from his house, and he'd always go down to watch the trains go by. He'd chase the cabooses until they vanished beyond where the parallel steel rails met, then run on for awhile longer. His mother worried, as mothers do, fearing he might get lost if he went too far, but he always had the tracks to guide him back home.

Only now, he wanted to get lost.

His feet were ready to run down those endless steel rails, leaving the weight of reason strewn across the gravel like so many empty bottles. He wasn't chasing the horizon but leaving it behind. He kept trying to find the moment when he could look behind him and not recognize a thing, a sublime instant when he could think to himself, "I don't know the way home." Part of him knew the way home would always be a simple 180-degree turn from whatever direction he was facing, and he always surrendered to this cold reality before his feet took him too far from his mattress and TV.

He was a prisoner trapped behind roads of eternal steel.