Another trip to Washington D.C.

 She sleeps. Her head lying on the window on her right side and her lips stuck together as making a small peak, as if she would be giving a kiss, a gentle, tender kiss; as a goodnight kiss. Hands crossed, the right, loose on top, as resting on the other one. From time to time she slightly moves her ring finger while she sleeps. Pale pink nails.

Under her hands resting over her legs, she holds a dark brown bag made of cloth; the hoops passing through her arms, close to the wrists.

She wears black pale jeans and a dark black jacket somewhat opaque. A wool scarf surrounds her neck. I kind of understand why. Today is an especially cold day. The streets are all covered with snow and a strong wind blows everything it finds loose like umbrellas or hats.

Her hair, long and straight, slips down by her shoulders and falls on her small breasts, then on the blouse, as if it doesn´t belong to her.

She wakes up only to see that she has not yet reached her destination and returns to close her eyes to get into the world that rest within her.

Her skin is white, but not as that of the blondies, rather pale. It could be said she´s Asian, perhaps Japanese. Her eyes, eyebrows, her round nose match. Young, I could say. Small pimples on her face betray her age and her smooth skin too. Where is she going to, somewhere far?

She got into the subway eight stations behind at the Landover station. I got in one before, in New Carrollton, the first station of the Orange line. She passed near me walking quiet, almost without a sound, as floating. It was then that I noticed her canvas shoes, and I thought she would be freezing outside on the cold.

She sat down on the other side of the wagon opposed to my seat, slowly, like a morning cloud that descends into a mountain.

She doesn´t look to anywhere specifically, as if anywhere would mean anything else but the window; the window nor facing to any side, rather than the walls of the underground.

I will get down at Rosslyn, three or four stations after the next one –a passenger who asked me where I was going told me so when I got lost looking at the map to figure out how to go from Rosslyn to the airport.

She does not move, stays still, or almost; closes her eyes and escapes to a world that only she knows, languid, a world than when she goes, without wanting to she drags me by, just by observing her. A quiet world, peaceful, clean; a student’s world. That’s the way I imagine it when I see how her eyelashes descend when she closes her eyes.

At Farragut West most of the passengers leave the train. Many are blacks, and unlike others I´ve seen somewhere else, these ones do not seem to be particularly harsh or rude, but rather soft, smooth, as not pretending to hurt you. Perhaps the cold winter has molded them.

The noise wakes her up, only to open her eyes halfway to look outside, see the name of the station, rearrange her bag and continue sleeping.

From my seat I imagine her studying literature at the University and having a boyfriend –American–, as it usually happens when Asian girls come to the States. I don't know why but I imagine her, hand on hand with him walking across the street in front of the university library, laughing.

My station is the next one, I think. I prepare my backpack, my luggage to stand up and pass through the few passengers towards the door. Foggy Bottom. It is not.

She awakens, as if someone had lightly touched her on the shoulder and had told her softly in the ear: «We’ve already arrived». She arranges her jacket, passes her hand through her hair, takes her bag, request permission to the girl sitting next to her bowing her head, goes straight to the door and disappears walking through the people, taking the world I´ve just imagined for her.

 Yes. Rosslyn is the next one.

 ∞-------∞-------∞-------∞------∞-------∞-------∞

 

         Here I am

Here I am trying to simulate

“My life is something more than interesting”.

Passing by, passing by, passing by.

 

I listen to the radio

just to say I am doing something.

That means nothing else than nothing.

 

I sip my strawberry shake,

imagining it´s a Sam Adams beer.

 

The radio keeps going on.

A country singer pops up of the blue

singing a sad song wet like a piece of bread

in a bottom of a glass of red wine.

 

The lover in turn is gone,

but her smell is still around

impregnated in my bed,

in my red towel and my cereal bowl.

Carmine traces remind me of her.

 

She loved me.

For sure she did love me.

A note on the pillow,

with lipstick, says