The woman sits beside Caitlyn today. Sheâs warm, even through Caitlynâs coat and the womanâs jacket. Itâs the first time theyâve touched, although Caitlyn knows she shouldnât be thinking about it like that. Itâs only the first time theyâve touched because generally, the woman stands, and almost universally, she faces Caitlyn.
Sheâs got the sharp eyes of a cynic â Caitlynâs familiar, sheâs been on the receiving end of those eyes a lot in her line of work. No one trusts the police. She canât say she blames them â and theyâre always focused on her destination. So⌠itâs unusual that the woman has her back to the exit this time. Itâs unusual sheâs sitting down.
Itâs unusual sheâs fallen asleep on Caitlynâs shoulder.
Mustâve been quite the day.
Caitlyn tries not to move too much. Whatever has got Ms. Vigilant exhausted enough to nap on public transportation can surely be held at bay for the twenty minute ride. And⌠maybe Caitlyn has a tiny crush and tries not to get too in her own mind about it.
At the womanâs stop, Caitlyn shakes her gently awake. The womanâs eyes open blearily, the tattoo on her cheek enraptures Caitlyn. A roman numeral, she thinks, and wonders what it means.
âItâs your stop,â Caitlyn says over the unbearable squeal of the breaking. The woman looks over her shoulder, sees the platform for Zaun, and cusses.
To Caitlynâs great relief, she does not question why Caitlyn knows this is her stop. Realistically, itâs not that strange. Theyâve been riding this same train at this same time, in each otherâs orbit, for over a year. Have nodded and waved and ignored each other across that time. It would be weirder not to know.
Caitlyn worries the weird thing is the acknowledging it, not the knowing. Theyâre not friends. One couldnât even reasonably call them acquaintances. Caitlyn might be a face in the crowd at best.
âThanks, cupcake,â the woman stands.
âWhat?â Caitlyn blinks.
The woman winks. She sways with the motion of the train, popping in a pair of what look to be barely functioning earphones as it comes to a stop, and then she hops off through the open door and disappears â a pink and red blur â into the throng of bodies.
Caitlyn opens up her journal as the train begins to departs again and, with a little huff of exasperation for being who she is, writes.
VI sat beside me on the train. She fell asleep against my shoulder, which has not happened before. I didnât mind. Wore red jacket, ripped jeans. Appears to have recently touched up undercut. Runs hot. Scar on lip.
Called me cupcake? Not sure where that came from. There wasnât much time to question.
Caitlyn closes her journal, embarrassed, and spends the rest of her trip with her hands folded over it, idly watching the haze of the world out the window, and distractedly thinking of the ghost of warmth on her shoulder.
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