by J.W. Wang

We sat next to each other on the train, separated by an armrest. The window and a blur of bypassing land to her left, I on her right. A beverage cart rumbled by, trailed by a stewardess. Cans of beer and soda knocked against each other; dull clinks echoed in the shivering cabin.

Her eyes were closed, her head tilted to one side. Her eyelashes, flared and batting minutes ago, were woven and still. Earlier we had talked of the whimsy of Tate, Neruda's sensuality, the fragility in Paul Klee. Of Wong Kar-Wai's obsession with longing, the right f-stop to capture creamy bokeh, the royalty of mangosteens and the blinding fuschia of dragon fruits. We talked through the morning, the night before, the afternoon and morning before that.

Still, her head tilted away from me, her arms folded against her chest. I had just the armrests.

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