Breadcrumb #634

MAURA LEE BEE

after the transfer, head filled with Etta James and Carole King, i find myself across from three women on the blue bench. large plastic bags protrude between their legs. matching bright sneakers. scarf tied like a gift. one tells a story with her hands and they all giggle like children. she continues with her joke, hand gently pressing on her friend’s shoulder. her companion at the end of the row leans in. their laughter is a burst in the quiet car, joy with wild abandon. 

the music stopped long ago, and i can’t help but notice the empty seat next to them. coincidence? or are they saving it for someone? i imagine a fourth with them, shoulders hunched, a red-lipped mouth streaked with tears from laughter. long fingers wrapped around a paper bag’s handle. hair tousled from the wind on their morning shopping. enraptured by a story from the day before. 

i like to think we’ll get like this—sun-kissed on the El, roses on our coats. laughing about some story from long ago or just yesterday. hair tied back or gone white early. denim jackets fading on a too cold day. taking that last sip of coffee from bodega breakfast, waiting for the next train. never pausing for the announcements. and i think, we’ll save a seat for her. joy between us together.

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