On the platform of the Q train, heading out to Queens. A crush of people; all of us staring down the train tracks. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
I think that girl pregnant. I turn to my left and it’s a middle-aged woman; short sandy-colored hair and a soft Eastern European accent. Smiling at me, speaking in a conspiratorial hush. Look. That girl over there in white sweatshirt. But she very little. She maybe thirteen.
I can’t really see the girl with the white sweatshirt – too many people on the platform, but I see flashes of the shirt, flashes of a long brown ponytail; the back of her body. She is little. I can’t see the front of her; her stomach or her face. She hugs an adult woman. They both stare down the train tracks.
It very sad, says the woman next to me. But she pregnant. I think that her mother.
Our hair lifts and underneath our feet, an ominous rumble.
That’s the Q, I say. My train. Have a nice day.
Goodbye, says the woman. She’s smiling so hard her eyes are slits. God bless you.
I move towards the train; elbow my way into the car. And then I finally see the little girl. She ain’t pregnant.