My mother will never know the simple pleasure of telling someone to fuck off. Of doing something because she wants to, and not because it’s expected of her.
She’s never going to know freedom in its purest form, with the chains she’s so carefully bound herself in.
This world is hers, and I don’t belong here anymore.
I never did.
But I know it now more than ever. The path I set out for myself is the only one I could have followed.
And I have nothing to say to her.
I have nothing to say to anyone here. Except for the last three names on my list.
The last three names before I am truly free from this life.
The train feelsold hat though I never actually took public transportation in New York. Albrights got around in town cars.
The first time I ever took a train was the night that I left. I didn’t know where I wanted to go. I just checked the board and picked the next scheduled train.
That was how I ended up in Boston.
Since then, I’ve taken this route back and forth several times. None so somber as the first.
Now it feels more like an adventure.
I like to look at the people and make up stories about them in my head. I steer clear of businessmen and look for the standouts in the crowd. The ones with the colorful clothing or the weird ticks. The guy reading a self-help book about winning over friends.
There’s one in every crowd.
But things are different today. Or maybe I am.
My eyes settle in on a man two rows down and across from me, reading the paper.
There isn’t anything in particular that draws my attention to him. Just a feeling, like maybe we’ve met before.
He isn’t a former client though, and he’s definitely not a New Yorker.
He’s older than I am. Early thirties, I’d guess. Handsome in a rugged way. Military through and through. He checks his surroundings often, and he looks at everyone but me.
I’m a details girl.
Always have been.
I notice the things that others tend to miss because they are so wrapped up in themselves.
Like the way his trousers rise up just above the ankles when he sits, and how one of his ankles is smaller than the other.
Not smaller, but synthetic.
I recognize the joint of the prosthetic since there’s a girl on the street- Kesha- who wears one as well. Oddly enough, there’s a whole fetish for that sort of thing, and the girl makes bank. She likes to say the best thing she ever did was lose her leg.
But this guy, I’d venture a guess, lost his in a war zone.
His hand is scarred too, but because he’s wearing a jacket, the full extent of the damage is a mystery.
It makes me think of Storm.
I haven’t seen her around in a while. But now that I’m back in the game, that’s likely to change real soon.
