Chivalry is dead #3

Thursday morning, 6 am.
The world is nothing but reflections in a smudged piece of glass.
It's cloudy, a little humid, the noises too loud.

I stand there, waiting. For the train, for the world to continue.
I'm stuck in a limbo, the repetition of subway stations.
I stand there, shaking along with the train then, swaying with the people around me.

You're there again, I notice.
Looking up at me when I look your way.
As if you'd known I would look. I smile, today, like I always do.
You smile back, lift a hand.

You never do.

We're not old friends passing, not familiar, have no names.
We're just people in a subway, sharing fates.
The others around us stare into their phones.
We stare at reflections in the windows, smiling to ourselves. 

I leave. You stay.

Where you might go, I ask myself, changing trains.
No other stranger smiles at me that day.

Friday morning, 6 am. It's still early, a little cold.
My world is a piano tune, swirling in a cup of coffee.
I feel like the limbo will swallow me whole.
Like the storm last night swallowed the kids chalk drawing on the sidewalk in front of my house. 

I will talk to you today. Ask your name.

I sway, feel the rattling of the train to the depth of my bones.
And when I turn my head, you're already looking, waving.
Your lips shape "hello" and I "hello" back.
That's that, a hello on a train.
No name attached to it, no courage.
I stay there, looking at your reflection in the darkness of the subway tunnel.
You seem sad, a little. 

I change train. The limbo swallows me up again.

I'll talk to you. I tell myself.
Saturday, 8 am.
Sunday 11 am.
Because we exchanged "hello"s on a train.

Monday 6 am. It's cold today, a little windy, a little rain.
The people in the subway station are shivering and silent, grumbling to themselves about the weather.
I am not. I curse at the smudged glass, my messy hair.
My glasses that are fogging up.
I take a deep breath, enter the swaying, tell myself again.
Hello you. 

I search for you, my eyes still trying to adjust.
The reflection of the window is just as foggy as my glasses.
There you are, I start to smile, turn around to greet you.

You're not alone.
You lean into someone else, eyes closed and I smile a little sadly.
Tired, I tell myself with a shake of my head and glance away.

I don't see you looking my way then, only on the dirty window of a subway,
but that's probably just my mind playing tricks on me.
Why should you smile as sadly as I do? 

We're just "read the same book",
"wear the same shoes",
"listen to the same band",
"take the same subway every morning, the same door in the subway station to greet each other".
We are just waving "hello"s.

After all, we're just strangers on a train.