Derailed

TWO

An expanse of thigh — that’s all at first.

But not just any thigh. A thigh taut, smooth, and toned, a thigh that had obviously spent some time on the treadmill, sheathed by a fashionably short skirt made even shorter by the position of the legs. Casually crossed at the knees. All in all, a skirt length that he’d have to say fell somewhere between sexiness and sluttiness, not exactly one or the other, therefore both.

This is what Charles saw when he looked up.

He could just make out a black high-heeled pump jutting out into the aisle, barely swinging with the motion of the train. He was directly facing her, his seat backward to the city-bound direction of the train car. But she was blocked by the front page of The New York Times, and even if she wasn’t blocked by the day’s alarming if familiar headline — MID-EAST BURNING — he hadn’t yet looked up toward her face, only peripherally. Instead he was focusing on that thigh and hoping against hope she wouldn’t turn out to be beautiful.

She was.

He’d been debating his next move: whether to turn back to his sports stats, for instance, whether to stare out the grime-streaked window, or scan the bank and airline ads lining each side of the car, when he simply threw caution to the wind and peeked. Just as The New York Times strategically lowered, finally revealing the face he’d been so hesitant to look at.

Yes, she was beautiful.

Her eyes.

They were kind of spectacular. Wide and doe shaped and the very definition of tenderness. Full, pouting lips she was ever so slightly biting down on. Her hair? Soft enough to cocoon himself in and never, ever, come out.

He’d been hoping she’d be homely or interesting or simply cute. Not a chance. She was undeniably magnificent.

And that was a problem, because he was kind of vulnerable these days. Dreaming of a kind of alternate universe.

In this alternate universe, he wasn’t married and his kid wasn’t sick, because he didn’t have any kids. Things were always looking up there; the world was his oyster.

So he didn’t want the woman reading The New York Times to be beautiful. Because that was like peeking into the doorway of this alternate universe of his, at the hostess beckoning him to come inside and put his feet up on the couch, and everyone knew alternate universes were for kids and sci-fi nuts.

They didn’t exist.

“Ticket.” The conductor was standing over him and demanding something. What did he want? Couldn’t he see he was busy defining the limitations of his life?

“Ticket,” he repeated.

It was Monday, and Charles had forgotten to actually walk into the station and purchase his weekly ticket. The time change had thrown him off, and here he was, ticketless in front of strangers.

“Forgot to buy one,” he said.

“Okay,” the conductor said.

“See, I didn’t realize it was Monday.”

“Fine.”

Another thing had just occurred to Charles. On Mondays he stopped at the station ATM to take out money he then used to purchase the weekly ticket. Money he also used to get through the week. Money he didn’t, at the moment, have.

“That’s nine dollars,” the conductor said.

Like most couples these days, Charles and Deanna lived on the ATM plan, which doled out cash like a trust fund lawyer — a bit at a time. Charles’s wallet had been in its usual Monday morning location, opened on the kitchen counter, where Deanna had no doubt scoured it for loose cash before going off to work. There was nothing in it.

“Nine dollars,” the conductor said, this time impatiently. No doubt about it; the man was getting antsy.

Charles looked through his wallet anyway. There was always the chance he was wrong, that somewhere in there was a forgotten twenty tucked away between business cards and six-year-old photos. Besides, looking through your wallet was what you were supposed to do when someone was asking you for money.

Which someone was. Repeatedly.

“Look, you’re holding up the whole train,” he said. “Nine dollars.”

“I don’t seem . . .” continuing the facade, sifting through slips of wrinkled receipts and trying not to show his embarrassment at being caught penniless in a train of well-to-do commuters.

“You got it or don’t you?” the conductor said.

“If you just give me a minute . . .”

“Here,” someone said. “I’ll pay for him.”

It was her.

Holding up a ten-dollar bill and showing him a smile that completely threatened his equilibrium.