The drinks on her breath were muted on mine. Our tongues slurred the space between. She was oblivious to the stragglers on the platform, but I caught several glances. Another pair of late night drunks.
The porcelain tiles were sooty and cracked, the grout stained sewage black. Mice scuffled under and across the rails; and plastic soda bottles lay in the cesspool, showing no signs of degradation. The mess we are all quick to leave behind, these things happened with time.
"Hey, I heard Charlene is seeing someone else," she said, shifting her slim frame against the pillar.
It was a name that often emerged in the confines of internal dialogue. Already, in hindsight, it had become a madness that parts of me survived. And yet when it tried to crawl out of my mouth, it came out lopsided and premature.
She turned. Just then, the loudspeakers sparked to life.
I had good reason to look away. A granular baritone echoed across the station chamber before dissipating into the scantily lit tunnels. His voice reverberated inside my skull during the long seconds after, tripping on nerves, beating against both ear canals.
"Good for her, I guess." I cast those words out into the bitter distance.
She fiddled with the leather charm on her wrist. Her nails chipped away at their fresh red polish.
I slipped her sleeve between my fingers and tugged.
"Let's not wait around. Why don't we walk over to my place instead?" I asked, stopping short of a breath.
She looked up. Was there something in her eyes? I couldn't tell. She was slow to smile, but nevertheless smiled, then nodded and brushed a corner of her eye.
Without another word, I took her hand. We hurried up the steps, past the mezzanine, toward the streets, without ever breaking stride, away from the mess we are all quick to leave behind.