My incoming text says: “See you at seven!”

Everyone on this SkyTrain is headed in the same direction. You are on your way home from work. You hate your job. I can see that. You yawn, but even the energy drawn from your climbing kids as you walk in the door won’t be enough to finish the load of laundry that was this morning left undone. It can wait ‘til tomorrow, along with the mortgage and the diapers and the doggie doo-doo bags.

Your incoming text says: “4L milk. Skim.”

She added that last bit because she’s noticed how fat you’re getting. You blame it on that thing that happened to your knee when you were playing that sport in college, when you were young. Getting off one stop early to walk to the grocery store will do you good. The fresh air that you forgot about. The milk that you know cannot wait.

You are going to do all sorts of things that are far less important than what I am about to do. And you have no clue, do you? That, although we move as one, I am alone here.

She is leaving for one month. We have only just met. I am eager to see her go only because I am eager to see how it feels when she does. One month goes by fast. April is an eternity.

My outgoing text said: “Broadway Station. 7pm. No time to talk. Just a kiss before you go.”

This is The New. The First. I stand fixed but I am agile. I hold the yellow bar to keep from hitting the ceiling. I get angry at the motionless forever spent at each station. I consider hopping off and running into the night. At least that would get me away from You, old man. But this is the end for you, isn’t it? Go ahead, stand up. And as the female robot voice chimes in to tell us where we are, let me see you answer that call.

The new life in your eyes must be a fluorescent light illusion and I mishear you pick up the phone in playful sing-song voice.

“Almost home, buddy…” as you step off the car. But that can’t be right. You must have said hunny. Your wife must be wondering where the goddamn milk is. Skim. Stat!

As the train rumbles forth I take one last look at you. You are blurry but your smile is clear. The flap of your trench coat flares out like a cape behind your peppy double-time strides. Everyone on this SkyTrain is headed in the same direction. My stop is next.