train

We’re standing on a packed commuter train. You’re sick, nausea rearing its head after an evening of standing, swaying, smiling, singing. The train settles into a gentle rocking rhythm; I wrap one long, lanky arm entirely around your waist, the other in a death grip on the metal railing above our heads, and you lock your body into place against mine. The florescent background of conversation fades as my focus centers on your hair against my chest, your rhythmic breathing, your steady intention, gingerly moving from one moment to the next. My hands have spent the night cautiously dodging your stomach, unable to acknowledge the truth growing inside, but now, feeling the rounded flesh through layers of cotton, I am acutely aware of the current coursing through my skin, reaching to engage this strange and precious intruder. Your hands clutch my skin with every jerk and jolt of the train; station stops shake you out of your reverie long enough to look up at me with bleary eyes and kiss me softly. High speeds turn to a gentle rocking, a hundred strangers sharing this giant metal crib.