Unnerved under the focused attention of strange eyes a tiny, tinny bell begins tinka-tink-tinkling somewhere deep in the folds of Leslie's brain, a bell so barely audible at first tinkle that it’s unwitting host continues her oblivious sleep, yet the teensy bell persists, slowly at first, though conscientiously, it’s angst and volume increasing as her nap continues, touching on nerves as it crescendos, releasing un-ignorable cortisols and adrenalines while prying it’s irksome self into her slumbering psyche.

Believe it. This hellish little bell is fucking relentless in its pursuit of duty.

Humans, no matter whose image we reflect, are biologically constructed. We are animals. Being at the top of the predatory chain does not change this fact, and being animals we are subjected to animalistic instincts, evolutionary warning signals which lie forever at rest within us, patiently awaiting their moments for usefulness. Unbeknownst to the napping Leslie one of these has awakened within her.

The year is 2041. Instincts no longer meeting her needs Leslie, like most women, has willfully glossed them over in favor of the pseudo-sciences of her day, and the pseudo-religions, and to her trust in civil obedience, but those primitive instincts have not abandoned her. Though tamped down and restrained there she has in no way eliminated them. The instincts are still alive, waiting as patiently as sentinels in the ignored solitudes of her loneliest outposts, hopeful for a moment to rise up and shine, heralding some unforeseen danger. For instance, when and if she might be alone and there comes that proverbial “bump in the night.” That time when Leslie’s better subconscious tells her it is only the wind, but something even further down inside the gray matter than that "better subconsciousness" whispers that, "No. That‘s not right… there is no wind,” until she is forced to test with a wetted finger and conclude that the air is indeed still. The instinct for survival is that warning voice she never wants to hear, the one which sparks that very first paralyzing, electrical tinge of terror down her spine as she walks unawares into the spider’s web, and that halts her breath even as it heightens her sensory perceptions. Were she a nineteenth-century man Leslie might have labeled this instinct the “Voice of God,” as it is the voice which emanates directly from some subconscious will that every living being must possess in order to perpetuate it’s own life.

Yes, Leslie sleeps, but it does not. In fact, the instinct is wide-awake now, having taken on the unlikely form of the annoying little bell. Not only is the instinct awake, it is becoming anxious. Being asleep, Leslie cannot be sure what it is happening inside her, though her eyeballs begin to follow the frenetic gyrations of the instinct, joggling crazily behind her closed lids as her brow begins to tic, and her fingers to spasm. The instinct knows it must somehow manifest itself, and it must do so quickly so that Leslie has time to avoid the danger that has sparked the instinct to industriousness. Therefore it invades her peaceful slumber in the form of an evil too horrible to be ignored, so that her dream is now a nightmare which she must awaken from. And so the tiny bell becomes a claxon inside her, creating chaos where restful order is desired, so that Leslie’s muscles subconsciously tense, her lungs expand in preparation of crying out, her eyes flare open and she is unpreparedly thrust into the wide awake, with the tinny-tiny bell having fallen as silent to her as though it never, ever was.

Herein, however, lies the problem with instinct, and the reason Leslie has eschewed it. Instinct cannot communicate forward from this vulnerable point. Leslie has awakened, but to what end? Seeing no immediate threat, her muscles relax. After what must have been a great while she finally exhales. “Ahhh… it was only a dream.”

But was it?

There is a moment as she gathers herself, checking that her surroundings appear as they should be. The train continues rocking beneath her, it's steel wheels clacking in time. Rural scenes still flash past the windows. A woman somewhere sneezes. Leslie’s bladder aches. she assumes this is the reason she has awakened, but before she can so much as think to rise she notices the man. He is looking at her from the seat opposite hers. Her tinted glasses have not revealed to the man that she is awake, nor that she is also looking at him. Duped by her camouflage neither of them are shamed as they should be, so his gaze does not cut away when her eyes settle on his. Leslie is relieved that the man’s expression portends no evil, rather his is a wistful gaze, still she does not like men, nor trust them, though she has admittedly known very few. Those men she had met seemed alright enough, she supposed, but she has been taught not to trust, and her teachers must know.

Leslie is a good girl… and was a good student all the way up.

The man is under double guard, as all men are. His guards are Amazon-like in their size and strength. Their prisoner wears the loose fitting, striped clothing of man. His legs are shackled at the ankle, his wrists cuffed to a chain about his waist. This one must be particularly dangerous, Leslie assumes. He must be, though she sees no indicator of how so, other than his eyes, which are still fastened upon her. She is becoming uncomfortable from them, somehow diminished, which is odd since he is the one who is bound. Shouldn’t it be he who feels weak? She should say something to the guards, so that they might force him to avert his eyes. Who does he think he is anyway, Leslie wonders, to stare at her as though she is the animal in the zoo, and not him?

Still, there is nothing malicious in his expression. It is as though he is lost in thought, reminiscing about some happier day, and it is only an accident that his eyes have trained themselves upon her as he does so. It is almost as though he is looking through her, rather than at her. She begins to pity his forlorn look, and his stripes and chains, but the sympathy she feels is short-lived, as it is quickly followed by that rising within her of that same frenetic energy which woke her from her nap, and which has set her once more upon pins and needles... tinka-linka-link.

“Careful, Leslie!” She reminds herself. “This is no lost puppy. This is a man!“ A pang of guilt flogs at her weakness. “He is the cause of all that is bad. The teachers all said so. Surely he deserves those stripes and chains!”

She wonders what horrible things this particular one has done to deserve enslavement, but then, she needn’t wonder. He is a man. It is enough. He would rape and kill, and lie and cheat for money or power given the chance. They all do. They always have. The books all say so.

Every man would be dead now if it could be managed, but it cannot. It has been discovered, like it or not, that some men are necessary, that some are needed to do those things that women will not, as it was found that even the strongest women, those women hand-picked for their size and strength and offered great reward for their service, those women still neither can nor will do the hardest, dirtiest work that is necessary to keep civilization from falling to disrepair. The women simply refuse, so some men must be kept, though the most rugged have long since been weeded out of society for safety’s sake, and only the softer, gentler ones tolerated. Yet, as will invariably happen with dogs and men, some of the stronger types have escaped into the swamps where they live like rats, hidden away from civilization.

But this one appears neither soft, nor gentle. Leslie has never seen his like. Barbarity is undoubtedly his crime. She wonders how one like him is ever caught? What could have lured him from the swamps, and into those chains? Rumor is that the men in the swamps have women, captured women. Could anything be more horrible, Leslie wondered, than a life in the swamps, subjugated by men? The thought brought a shudder. There was even unfathomable talk of women leaving the sanctuary of Orlando willingly, of their own volition, walking away into the wilds to never be seen again. Where could such an inclination possibly originate? How could anyone be so foolish? It angered Leslie to think that any woman could be so naive, so ungrateful. After all that had been done to rid civilization of man how could any woman with half a brain willingly leave their new and improved world to help re-propagate the patriarchy out in the wilds? Certainly, no educated woman would. As far as Leslie was concerned, she wished they’d just let the bastards die, already. Men frightened her. Especially this one, but as with any horrible, detestable thing she found her eyes unwilling to withdraw from it.

Yet this one also appeared immensely sad, didn’t he? And well he should, what with the future he faced. She supposed he was being taken for sperm harvesting first, and then he would be forced into labor, slaving in those unenviable jobs outside of the HeR Realm; plumbing, farming, roadwork, mining, rail maintenance… those jobs no self-respecting woman would ever be caught dead doing, no matter what pay was offered. The thought of doing such work made her grateful again for HeR! HeR was a godsend; employing all women, and treating every single one respectfully, with no real output required of any of them other than insuring equity, which though impossible was never-the-less an intriguing game to play.

Sperm harvesting? Leslie sometimes wished she had majored in bio-mechanics at University. She wondered how it was done, what sort of machine was used? And if not a machine, then what? Surely no self respecting woman was expected to coax it out? This one’s sperm would undoubtedly bring top dollar, as even from his sitting position the appeal of his stature was obvious to Leslie. He would tower over her if standing. This one even dwarfed the Amazon-like guards sitting at his sides. Leslie was unnerved by the realization that, should the man take a violent turn, even being chained the two guards would stand little chance against him. But then, that’s why the guards were armed, wasn’t it? To ensure no such thing would happen? Still, the prospect was frightening.

Though the man looked sad his face appeared strong, his features cut clean and his weathered hands veined with confidence and competence. Both his hands and face were unlike any of those she had ever encountered in Orlando. The one’s she’d seen were soft men, pretty men, making them singularly unattractive to Leslie, validating her choice of women for partners. The Orlando men reinforced her belief that men were just poor imitations of women anyways, and suited no purposes other than their muscular strength and their sperm… until this one. This one seemed different. This one looked capable… even dangerous. That thought stirred another instinct awake, another bell, heightening Leslie’s awareness and stimulating her pulse, though this survival instinct somehow felt different than the other, and clamored in different spots within her.

God, she needed to pee! But Leslie hesitated to get up with him watching her the way he was. What made him do that, anyway? She should say something to the guards, but what would she say? “Your man is looking at me?” Shit, she was admittedly as afraid of the guards as she was of the man. More-so really, as she had seen firsthand what the Orlando Guard were capable of. Could anything, Leslie wondered, be scarier than a large, testosterone infused woman with a taser and an attitude?

Regardless, she must go, and soon. But as she stood and started down the aisle the strangest thing happened. Leslie forgot how to walk. Or at least, while she napped her gait had somehow changed itself unbeknownst to her. She found her weight pushing itself onto the balls of her feet, which coerced an unbidden roll to her hips which, however embarrassing, once employed she was powerless to undo. She wondered if anyone noticed. She longed to look back, to see if the man was looking on, or if the knowing guards were smirking, but she defeated the urge and hurried along the best that she was able to under the awkwardly trying circumstances.

And the walk back from the restroom held more, even greater horrors. The more conscious of her gait she became, the more it changed. She was surprised to find her diaphragm sucked tight, and her shoulders peeled back so that her chest was thrust brazenly, humiliatingly forward. There was an agent checking tickets in the aisle, forcing Leslie to squeeze herself around the uniformed woman in order to get back to her seat, which was where she was when the train lurched slightly, tilting the agent into her and knocking Leslie into the astonished prisoner’s lap. Mortified, Leslie clawed to get up, but the agent was still there, blocking her path. Leslie fell back onto the prisoner, her bottom landing solidly upon muscle-hardened thighs which proved more than adequate to support her weight, solid enough in fact to jolt a panic through her. Forgetting that his hands were fastened to his sides she assumed the ones she felt grabbing at her were his, so she fought them. A desperate sound escaped her as she slapped uselessly at those unseen hands which were finally and gratefully able to catch her up, and to push her onward in the direction of her seat where Leslie kept her eyes lowered away from her humility, though it was unnecessary, as she was still wearing the dark glasses.

She wanted to look up at the man, but could not bring herself to. She wanted to read his face. Was he laughing at her? But she could not bring herself to because she could not stop thinking about how his lap had felt underneath her, how her softness had molded naturally and comfortably around his hardness, and how she had not been able to pull herself away from it. Had it been a lack of strength which held her there, or a lack of will? It had been as though something inside her longed to be where it was, and so had inadvertently devised a devious plan to place itself there, and which had then desired more time there once it’s plan had played out. This evil thought flushed Leslie’s cheeks, and was why she could not look the man’s way. It was just the sort of thought that got a woman exiled from Orlando, wasn’t it?

But she had to look, didn’t she? She could not stop wondering if he was looking at her, if he had felt what she’d felt… she didn’t know what to call it… a connection? Behind the dark lenses her eyes flickered only for the briefest second, just long enough for her to see that the man was still looking at her. Unmindfully, her posture stiffened and her legs crossed as she considered what that meant. If he was staring at her after what had happened then it was no longer mindless staring, was it? It was intentional, brash even. Her eyes flickered again, holding there longer this time. He was still looking.

Their eyes met. Even through the glasses they met. When they did, her hand surprised her by reaching up to her hair, tucking a loose strand behind her ear. “Whatever could have prompted that?” she wondered, her eyes averting for a moment before returning to his, suddenly afraid of losing them. They were desperate, his eyes. She could see the desperation in them... and the hunger. Yes, she could see that in them too, and in his body, the way the calloused hands manacled to his waist kneaded nervously at his thighs. The recollected hardness she’d accidentally discovered in those thighs started her chest to pounding, and her ears to pulsing. She could not look away now or else she might lose those memories and discoveries forever, and she did not want them lost.

This was ridiculous! Unable to meet his gaze any longer her eyes closed away from his only to allow her mind’s eye to take over, showing her what her sensory eyes could not, displaying for her the calloused hands in a different fashion; kneading her thighs now instead of his own, squeezing them almost to the point of pain before slowly releasing them, and then squeezing again before sliding down toward her knees, easing them slightly apart before sliding back up again slowly and ever closer to her, his thumbs on their insides squeezing, pushing upwards until they nearly, nearly touched her there… and always, always firmly squeezing.

Her eyes flared open at her audible moan.

Jesus Christ! What was the fucking matter with her? Leslie forced a breath, though her chest still pounded and her ears still hammered. She looked again, but this time it was his eyes that were closed. Leslie wondered what he was thinking, and if he was thinking of her as she’d been thinking of him? She noticed his hands, lying still now on his thighs, no longer kneading them. And she noticed that the stripes across his lap were stretched tight, and she was thankful for the dark glasses as she looked, and breathed, and pounded, so that no one could see her and know.

The train’s breaks squealed. The car lurched itself to a stop as a feminine voice oozed directions, always feminine. Her stop? But how could it? Hadn’t she just boarded?

She did not want to disembark. Instead she looked at the man who was looking at her. The desperation was still there, clinging to her from his eyes, and the hunger. And her heart still pounded her breast, and her ears still thundered, and the tiny-tinny bell was back as she rose, anxiously clamoring for attention as she and it watched the man slide from his seat to the aisle’s floor, catching himself there on a single knee, his eyes fixed on hers filled with noble purpose as he willingly submitted himself before her.

It was upon her own weakened knees that Leslie stepped down from the car. There was no longer thought of posture, nor gate. There was only emptiness. The train eased slowly forward before shooting ahead with a vastly unexpected speed and was gone, but for a reverberative clack issuing up from the rail’s steel.

Leslie felt no satisfaction that he and it were gone, and no joy in being home.

It was three blocks to the apartment she and Morgan shared, though it suddenly seemed much further away from the station than it ever had before. Theirs was an apartment just like everyone else’s, the same floor plan, with the same single bedroom and the same types of appliances. There was no need in the realm that was Orlando for larger apartments, as only those women in power could afford in vitro, and neither she nor Morgan wielded any power yet, though both worked dutifully for HeR, which of course was the power in Orlando. And while an Orlando man might theoretically have a baby, it was still impossible for two Orlando women to conceive, or two women anywhere for that matter. And for the first time ever Leslie felt a desire to conceive. More than a desire actually; a need. Before it was too late. A need which bordered on rashness; to feel a child grow within her, to hear its cry, and to suckle it. Her body literally tingled at the thought of it.

Across the tracks lay the swamplands, dark and foreboding. She had ever feared the swamps and those who inhabited them. It was a learned fear, taught since her youth, back when she’d been separated from her own parents and placed in HeR’s care, as all young girls must be at the same age when the boys are either “changed” or enslaved.

Leslie began her unwilling trek to the apartment which she, for some reason, was thinking of as “the apartment,” rather than as “her apartment,” or as “their apartment.” Today was Thursday. Morgan would be making her pasta. Leslie felt revulsion at the thought of the apartment, and at the thought of Thursday Pasta, and even at the thought of Morgan, though she did love Morgan. Really, she did. She loved Morgan very much! She only wished she were in love with Morgan, or with any other woman for that matter. Morgan had never made Leslie’s heart beat like the man on the train had, nor had Tracey before Morgan, nor Kim before Tracey. It was sad that a woman had never made Leslie feel that, but it was also made obvious to her today that one never could.

The swamp was right over there, only the train tracks and a small field of grass away. She could feel it watching her, the swamp, with eyes that made her uncomfortable, just as the man on the train’s had. Leslie was dressed for work, not the swamps, but if there was no one over there awaiting her then she would not survive anyways, would she? Leslie turned away from familiarity then, away from Thursday Pasta and, in answer to the tinkling bell inside her towards that which was different. Leslie veered slightly across the tracks, hurrying over the grassy area towards the tree line, afraid of her fear, afraid that it might stop her.

Leslie ran. She ran with the prescience that somewhere in those shadows a man awaited her, a man not unlike the one from the train, a strong man who would walk beside her, submitting himself to her if she would submit in kind. A man who would love her and hers, and protect them, offering them comfort and hope. A man unlike the ones she had been taught to fear.

And as Leslie ran the tinkling bell in the folds of her mind ceased it’s ringing, it‘s warnings no longer necessary, for up ahead the shadowy unknown tolled out to her a clearer premonition, one resounding with the safeties and comforts of Divine destiny.

Believe it. Leslie ran.

In the soft luminescence of the train compartment, the world outside blurred into streaks of twilight colors, you awoke to a sight that inexplicably seized your heart. Across from you, flanked by two stern-faced guards with holstered guns, sat a person whose eyes seemed to narrate a thousand untold stories. Despite the grimness of their situation, shackled and evidently on a journey back to face a dire fate, there was a captivating allure in their gaze, a silent scream for a life unlived.

Your eyes locked, and in that ethereal moment, time seemed to dissolve. You knew, with an inexplicable certainty, that the person before you was whom your soul had been searching for. And as your gazes intertwined, you felt the mutual recognition, a shared heartbeat in a world gone still.

In the quietude of that connection, your lives unfolded in a series of silent communications, transcending the spoken word. You imagined your first date, a clandestine meeting in a small, dimly lit café where the rest of the world faded into the background, and only the two of you existed. There were shy smiles and hesitant touches, the air charged with the electricity of newfound love, yet shadowed by the unspoken knowledge of its fleeting nature.

The train rattled on, a relentless reminder of the journey's end, but in your shared silence, you lived a lifetime. You envisioned stolen moments of passion, where every touch was imbued with the desperation and intensity of lovers condemned by fate. These moments were your rebellion, a defiance against the merciless tide of destiny.

In their eyes, you saw the life you could have had together. A small, sunlit home filled with laughter and the pitter-patter of little feet, days spent basking in the simplicity of love's comfort, and nights wrapped in the warm cocoon of each other's arms, safe from the world's harshness.

But the cruel reality crept back in as the train neared its destination. The armed guards shifted, a silent assertion of their control, and the future you had woven together unraveled thread by thread. You were powerless, a spectator to the unfolding tragedy, your heart shattering with the silent cries of what could have been.

In those final moments, as they were led away, your eyes met for one last time, a silent farewell. There were no words to capture the agony, no screams loud enough to echo the pain of your sundered souls. You were left with the bittersweet aftertaste of a love as profound as it was transient, a haunting melody of 'what if' lingering in the silence of the train's whistle.

Thus, you lived a lifetime in a single journey, a love story confined to the silent words and shared glances between two souls, briefly intertwined by fate's cruel hand, on a train bound for the end of everything.

I didn’t used to believe in past lives. Until I boarded a train in Vienna. There was a man a few rows ahead who looked familiar but I couldn’t put a name to his face. I considered the possibility that he looked like a childhood friend or a famous celebrity, but I couldn’t come up with anyone who looked quite like him. Sometimes I dream about people I’ve never seen - scientists swear it’s impossible, but my dad insists it happens to him, too, and he often meets people later in life that he’s seen in his dreams. When we locked eyes, something felt different. I knew he was thinking the same thing.

I recalled at that moment our story.

Coincidentally, it began on a train, the Orient Express, going from Paris to Budapest. I spent my inheritance on a ticket, which I came to regret come time to retire. We were in the dining car, and I tripped right next to his table. I have never been good at walking in heels. I had borrowed that pair from a friend and they were about half a size too big, making my balance even worse.

I knew that not everyone was staring at me, but the hush that fell over the room was significant enough to make me feel humiliated. I was not raised in the upper class - the inheritance came to me through technicality. I’d never met that side of my family. It was obvious that I didn’t belong here. I was about to regret my decision to purchase a ticket when the man next to me reached out his hand to help me stand up.

The first thing I noticed about him was the way that his brown eyes softened when I met his gaze. The second was that he was sitting alone.

“Yes, I’m traveling solo,” he said, knowing I was thinking of a way to broach the question.

“Why is that?”

“There wasn’t anyone to take with me.”

“I can relate.”

“You’re here alone?”

“Why do you sound so surprised?”

I realized that I was in the way of a waiter who was doing a much better job balancing a tray of plates than I was at balancing on my own two feet. I made the split-second decision to sit across from the man who I came to know as “William”, sometimes just “Will”.

We talked until the dining car closed when we were politely asked to leave, though I could see behind the waiter’s eyes that he did not like me.

“Would it be inappropriate to ask you if you’d like to come back to my room?” William asked. “And I’m not suggesting anything like that.”

“It might be, but I’d say yes if you did ask me.”

“Okay, then: will you come with me to my room?”

“Yes, I’d like to.”

I came to find that he had a nicer room than I did, but there was no reason to be jealous because I slept there too for the remaining days of my trip. William opened the door and immediately removed his suit jacket, tie, and shoes, and I started to consider the fact that he might’ve been propositioning me after all. I lingered by the door, trying to decide if “it’s vacation” or “I paid a lot for this trip, so I should get my money’s worth” was enough of an excuse to sleep with him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked when he noticed I hadn’t spoken.

“I’m still trying to decide if I should sleep with you or not.”

“I don’t think you should.”

“Would you like me to leave?”

“No, but I think you should take your shoes off because you look like you’re about to fall over and I’m pretty sure you only had one glass of wine.”

“Okay.” I placed my shoes next to his and I heard the distinct sound of his body flopping back onto the mattress.

I gathered a lot from the way he smiled when he was sprawled out on the bed like his long day of mingling in the bar car exhausted him to the extent a day spent in combat would.

I didn’t ask him if I could take off my earrings, but I did before I mirrored the way he fell backwards into bed. He later told me he liked how I was “unapologetically myself”. In reality, I was ready to apologize for any misstep I took, but he happened to be easy to please on account of the fact that we were very much alike.

We were late for breakfast the next morning and I was absolutely positive that everyone in the dining car assumed it was because we were having sex the night before - I overheard a snippet of a conversation and I wanted to go over and correct the record, but William said I should enjoy my fifteen minutes of fame. Most people are unremarkable, and that I must be remarkable since they were making remarks about me.

The truth was that we spent the night playing Gin Rummy with a pack of cards he borrowed from an old friend and “forgot to give back”. I insisted on playing until I won, but I didn’t win until well after midnight.

We were in as much of a committed relationship as two strangers on a train could be by that night, which was when I stopped by my room to grab my toothbrush before I headed back to his. We didn’t sleep together, but we did sleep next to each other. It was quite possible that he caught a glimpse of me naked when I changed into one of the complimentary robes after I spilled champagne on my shirt - actually, he made me laugh so hard it came out my nose. He promised not to peek, but if I were him I would have, so I couldn’t blame him either way.

Since the other passengers made their assumptions and judgments about us, we decided to make some about them, making up rumors about the rich folks around us as they walked through the bar car. Most of them were unbelievable and some of them were crude, but all of them were hilarious.

I remember the moment I realized I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Will. We were in his bed and he started singing this song he had stuck in his head, but he could only remember the chorus. He gave me the tune of the verses and we worked on lyrics. He wrote them down on a napkin and kept them in his pocket. The pen was mine, but he asked if he could keep it. I had no particular attachment to the pen, so I let him have it.

It was a few hours later that I asked him why he wanted it. “Why did you ask for my pen? It’s nothing special.”

“Not to you, it isn’t,” he said. “It’s special to me because it’s yours.”

I wanted to tell him that he already had my heart and he could have my soul if he wanted it. But instead, I asked him for the deck of cards he had, and he gave them over without hesitation.

I’m not a writer like I was then, but I still carry a pen in my purse almost always. I take it out along with a receipt, so I can write him a message. I don’t address him by name because I don’t know what his is in this lifetime.

I don’t have the time or space to tell him everything I’m thinking either so I keep it short.

“Just so you know, I loved you. I’m sorry we didn’t have more time.”

When an attendant comes by with the drink I ordered, I hand him the note and beg him to discreetly deliver it. For whatever reason - maybe it’s the desperation he sees in my eyes - he places it between two napkins and hands them to the man I knew as "Will".

I get off the train before he does. When I pass by his seat, he mouths “I love you too”.

I spent most of that summer sleeping on trains. I learned to sleep in any position and through screaming children with harried parents, drunk young people as well as loud conversations I mostly couldn't understand.

At that moment, however, there was none of that background noise. It was a night train and everyone was sleeping or at least quiet. It was a whispering voice that awakened me.

Tú.

I opened my eyes, startled. The seats that had been empty when I fell asleep, were no longer. A man shackled both hand and foot was in front of me. Next to him and me were men in blue uniforms with bulges clearly delineating weapons within easy reach.

They were both deeply asleep, chins buried in their chests. But his eyes, a beautiful brown with flecks of swirling green and gold, were wide open.

Tú.

His mouth never moved, but I heard him call to me.

A warmth spread through me as something inside me recognized him.

You.

For as long as I can remember, I have felt emptiness, a feeling that a piece of me was missing. When our eyes met, I felt peace.

Then I was sitting in a café in Salamanca, writing page after page of existential reflections woven through a critical analysis of works by Azorín.

Puedo sentarme aquí?

The café-bar was full to bursting with loud college students on their way to louder drunkenness. I had been sitting in my window seat for hours and was just reaching a key argument in my paper so I was inclined to just say, no, I'm sorry, without looking up.

But I looked up. Soft brown eyes with flecks of green and gold smiled down at me. I took my bag off the empty chair and stuffed my papers and books inside.

An hour later we were walking the streets, looking for someplace a little quieter. Found, we played a game of chess while drinking Rioja at a table under the stars. We played, we talked, we drank, we fell in love.

Around one in the morning, he took my hand as we walked by the river. We sat on a bench, listening to the water, to the silence, the sounds of our hearts pounding in our ears. We held hands in silence for hours, butterflies running rampant.

Mía.

Mine.

He walked me to my hotel and kissed my forehead.

Before a month had passed, he came to my room. We had spent another evening by the water holding hands. That night, we kissed. First, a soft feathery kiss, then he licked my lips and they parted, welcoming. I melted in his arms, liquid warmth pooling low. We kissed for hours, first standing against the door then laying on my bed, bodies entwined, pressed close. Wanting.

We were married by Christmas. He moved to New York with me and got a job teaching at Columbia. I finished my doctorate a few months before our first son was born. Within six years, we had moved to the suburbs and had three boys. They all had their daddy's eyes. It was a loud house and a happy home full of love and laughter.

Of course, time passes. They grew up as children do. The youngest married first, his high school sweetheart. The eldest was next, marrying a colleague from work. Our middle child took his time, but love found him, eventually. Our hearts were full as they all built their own joy- and love-filled homes.

We retired when I was 55 and he was 62. Over the next twenty years, we traveled the world, played with our grandchildren and spent hours weeding our flower beds. Indeed, he was in the garden when I felt something was wrong. I ran outside and found him lying in the freshly turned dirt.

I ran over.

Querida…

Darling…

He grabbed my hand, grip strong though he was dying. His eyes pierced mine and I heard him say

Te quiero, vida mía, cuánto te quiero.

I was still staring into his eyes, tears of grief pouring from mine, when the officers pulled him up to take him off the train.

My mood is

indescribable.

A downspout of

misguided

rain freezing

overnight.

A complicated

mountain fold,

its peak

sheltered

by sensitivity

and fog.

Its hardened

crust evaporating

into

sadness.

My desolation

comforted

by his imagery

and love.

Pain is

romanticized

inside

my mind.

Literary connections

found

in pulsating

isolation.

Love me

back.

I am

disconnected

from the norm.

Relieving cuts

pour

blood onto

canvas.

Empty.

I offer

definition

unintelligibly through

matte abstraction.

I am

complexly

overwhelmed by

simple movement.

My mascara

smears like—

A whore.

My legs

spread

wide,

knees bent,

my aged hips

crack with

temporary

satiation.

Heavy

sighs are

my aphrodisiac

into

oblivion.

The warmth

of

the sun

on my face

is my

mother.

Nature

hugs me

with

its splintered

bark.

Gasping

with emotion,

the thought

of him

hurts.

Moved

to tears

when

Mozart's plays

tangible.

A grin

too wide and

too toothy

silently churns.

My stomach hurts

to the tone of

laughing

like a clown.

Names

spelled wrong

hang on

the air

make

me dizzy.

Contradicting

comfort found

in

metaphors

and equation

abandon me

ad infinitum.

Abhorrent

shock at

mass blindness

ruminates.

Raw.

Despair drops

into buckets

of mud

in my chest

when

I think

of you.

Despondency

covers

my shoulders,

my grandmother's

shawl,

when

the chill

of

loneliness comes.

Inner epiphanies

debate

over desire

and

reality.

I stand

still and

frozen in

my existential

existence.

I know

my bravery

exists

but I am

fucked

between

folded linen.

Stale.

And

the closet

is closed.

And my

heart

drops.

There is

no point

anymore.

I am sad

and

I am

grieving

indefinitely.

You are gone.

It is dark

Tan, with fake eyes in watch, like from behind a death mask, there leaning upon the edge of the wood bucket seat: Persistence. From the intense consternation of the moment, she searched the fuzziness of the expression... for the tiny face that must be somewhere near the base of the antennae.

In this Pass and impasse, in the tunnel-- leading to her just execution-- no detail seemed too small. Vision turned microscopular... or rather, tubular. At nighttime she would have seen the most distant star; and in the expanse of the bleak day, she saw each and every fiber of fluff atop this silvered being, dappled with bronze streaks, and tipped with white at the very ends, near invisible. As upon an eyelash.

Here was a faint symbol of Spring, in brownie form, complete with wings. A natural yet mystical thing. It fluttered softly against the cold draught in the cabin. She wished she could be the white-haired old lady accompanying an old storybook Mister, arm in arm, through Summer to Winter. It would not be.

The rail carriage devoid of all hope, was surrounded by a seal of iced snow, and the Eurail sped on its dispassionate mission. She had killed the Ambassador. There was no denying it. It was her charge, given, and committed. In the singular moment, she loved the displaced neutral moth, seeking heat, alone, with her in their barred alienated containment.

And the moth, in its turn, was drawn to the strange closure, away from the freeze and freedom of the great outdoors... A behemoth of survival.

A fire in her eyes flamed, with indignation, knowing she had done what she had done, with full awareness and would do it all over again, for the cause. When she took the Ambassador's life, she had said prayers at feverish pitch aloud for both of them-- that Death be swift. She knew she was damned, in this life; and what would come after, would not be known. Her lips parted, false smoke of condensation escaping like white volcanic steam in the heat of this realization.

And the tiny moth, flew in...

I remember everything.

Our first date, he took me to my favourite restaurant. Over a steaming pizza, we fell deeply in love. I knew I'd never be the same.

Our first time, he was gentle and caring. He touched me like one would with a butterfly and I soared in his embrace.

Our first apartment, he wanted us to live together. I was on cloud nine, always in his company. I''d never have to miss him.

Our first fight, he screamed with fury. Never had I heard such anger in a voice, his typically smooth voice was hoarse with rage.

I remember when he came back, crying. He apologized like no man ever had, and asked if I hated him. I told him I could never.

I also remember when the police first visited. They questioned us for hours about things I didn't understand. He held me and I felt that everything would be okay.

I remember when the police showed up again, breaking down the door of our home. They searched it all, throwing down everything without a care.

I remember finding a note on the refrigerator the next day. He had to leave, it said, to keep me safe. He also wanted to know if I hated him. I could never, I thought.

I remember the police coming back. They asked about him, wanting to know where he went. I wish I knew, I answered truthfully. Criminal, they called him.

I remember it all.

Our eyes meet and I know he remembers too. His gaze was always louder than his words. He missed me. I missed him too. I stare into his bright eyes turned dull. One thing weighs on his mind. Do you hate me?

I look up and see a woman in cuffs staring at me intensely. She looks familiar and I remember that she was on the early morning news. They said she had been arrested for some heinous crime and rumour was she was going to be extradited and later executed for the crime. I also remember thinking she looked really cute. Now that she was actually infront of me I think she is absolutely gorgeous and any hangups due to social convention were swiftly overtaken by my curiosity as I proceeded to stare back. Something that I can barely recognise as a smile is on her face. At some point I just knew, she was it. A smile began to form on my face as her's grew. I wonder how her earlobe tastes. How does she smell after a run or straight from the shower? I notice she is panting softly while discreetly rubbing her legs together. I think we were having some very similar thoughts...

Time passes as we stare at each other and with not a word, have the time of our lives. Just then, a terrible realisation comes to mind. My face pales and my smile disappears. She instantly recognises the change and somehow understands. This will be the first and last time we would ever see each other. She knew, I knew and worst of all was that she KNEW that I knew. Her smile grew wider but now hid a deep sadness behind it. Something in me breaks. I don't know what it is but I know it is something important. I remember someone warning me to always build strength, for a time would come when I would need it. Here I was, in the presence of the love of my life, probably of previous lifetimes as well and I lacked the strength to save her. She again somehow just knew and I knew she loved me all the same. That something important inside me broke some more. As they got her up and led her away, a tear escaped her eye but she kept her smile. I broke down and wept.

It's a quick trip. I've gone to visit my grandmother in her new retirement home. I'm going back home and I fall asleep once I'm settled on the train.

When I wake up, I'm no longer alone in the compartment. Three men are facing me. The two in uniforms are sitting on either side of a man who's staring straight at me. His eyes are wide and his mouth is gaping slightly. I feel a shock run through me. I know him. I know him even though I've never seen him before in my life.

He's terrified. He's wearing a pale gray prison uniform and I see the sweat stains under his arms. He has both legs and arms chained to the other men. I know where he's going. He's not coming back.

But I know him. And he knows me. We know what's supposed to happen now.

We're supposed to leave this train together. I'm supposed to take him to my cramped apartment and let him change into an old outfit my brother left me before he left for the war. Then this man and I would eat the meat pies my grandmother gave me. Then we would spend the night together.

And every night after that. Until the day we're both gray and wrinkled and our bodies have become limp sacks of skin and bone. Until the day we both fall asleep forever.

But that isn't what's going to happen. We both know this when we feel the train come to a stop. The uniformed men quickly stand up and undo the shackles on his feet. They push him out of the compartment.

All I can do is stare at the back of him as he's taken away from me.

I spent my whole life with them.

We're inseparable.

Never have we spoken,

and yet

our eyes

communicate.

A date to execute

European landscape can't compare

Wishing for

delay

Hoping

They won't notice

my exit.

Hoping

I won't know

when I've pushed

Their life-ending button.