On the metra to Chicago, alone

When I'm on the train I wonder things about the people around me.  Whether they are loved by someone, someone waiting for them. Who in their life has touched them and whispered sweet nothings into their ears.  It humors me to think that some of them are in between lives, escaping from a dead-end situation into the  hopeful unknown.
Sometimes I can feel their eyes on me when I look down, but I don't mind because I do the same thing when they aren't looking.  I pick at the skin around my fingernails and notice that my flesh has turned gray, like a rotting corpse.  Perhaps it is the stale light inside the train, or it could be that my painted exterior is finally chipping away.

I spend the day in Chicago, feeling very much like a ghost--or rather like I am being trailed by ghosts of people I would like to have with me. They are with me at every turn, reminding me how alone I am.  I feel cheated by them, until I remember that it is only I who am cheating myself.

The train ride home is pleasant. I close my eyes and let the dappled sunlight from golden hour dance on my exposed face, book in my lap, ignored.  I think I could live on a train and be perfectly content.