Amtrak Girl

Amtrak Girl

Peter didn’t believe in love at first sight. Or not until he first saw the girl crying on the Amtrak. He’d been reading the New York Times on his way to his dull job in a call center that serviced infomercial products when the morning conductor walked by collecting tickets. Peter happened to look up then and he saw her.

Even from where she sat across the aisle, Peter could see the tears on the girl’s cheeks sparkling in the dirty morning sunlight that filtered through the grimy window. She cried silently though, and if the sun hadn’t been hitting her face just the right way, he may never have noticed the tears at all. She sat with her hands folded over her purse. He noticed her nails were short, unpolished. He liked that. But her fingers were fidgety, nervous, like a little girl’s hands when she knows she’s about to be punished. This girl herself couldn’t be more than 22 or 23. A shaft of her long shining light brown hair partially covered her face. She wore a light blue cotton sleeveless dress and no jewelry. He didn’t think she wore a bra; he wasn’t sure but he thought he could glimpse the peaks of her nipples through the thin material. He felt a tingling in his groin and moved his gaze to her long smooth legs, which were bare except for her sandals, and pressed neatly together, the skirt of her dress ending just at the tops of her nicely-shaped knees.

He fell in love with her then, but would tell you if you asked (as he told himself) that what he felt was definitely something else, a momentary aberration from sanity. Peter did not believe in love at first sight and nothing had changed.

But it had. He could not concentrate on his work that day, which seemed even duller than usual. His thoughts continually drifted to thoughts of the girl. He wondered what her name was, where she lived, what she did, if she had a boyfriend or not, the names of her brothers and sisters, what her favorite animal was, but more than anything, why she cried like that. He longed to wrap his arms around her and kiss away the salt from her cheeks. His groin ached and he was glad he wore loose khakis today instead of jeans. He kept checking the clock but the day dragged on and on. The anticipation of possibly seeing her on the Amtrak going home tonight was nearly unbearable.

He ran to the train station and took his usual seat. He got up and moved from car to car, hoping to bump into the girl accidentally. Yeah, right. Well, he didn’t see her and when the train pulled up at his station and dropped him off, he walked back to his apartment with a dull ache in his chest.

He made himself a Budget Gourmet dinner and sat down at the kitchen table to eat it, without even removing it from its cardboard box. How he longed to be cooking with her in this kitchen, discovering all her mysteries. He went to bed early, and fell asleep thinking of her. When he awoke the next morning, his sheets and thighs were sticky.

He did see her again that morning. She was in the same seat. Today she wore a white linen sleeveless dress and white sandals. Again no jewelry or stockings. Her hair shone like amber in the weak morning light. Peter didn’t want to be caught staring at her, but he couldn’t help himself. He arranged the Times on his lap, partly to hide his erection, and also to look like he was occupied. The paper held no interest for him at all; it was merely a smokescreen.

As if she sensed Peter’s attention, the girl suddenly looked up at him. Her eyes were large and slightly tilted at the outside corners, widely spaced and dark greenish gray. Like twin seas, he thought. Fringing them were impossibly long, straight, ginger-colored lashes, spiky with tears. Her cheeks were delicately flushed and her mouth formed a little “o.” Peter looked away, embarrassed. The heat rose in his cheeks and he gazed more intently at his newspaper, willing away his blush.

Cautiously he shifted his gaze back to her. She was still looking at him. Now she looked away suddenly, blinking, in the process sending a fresh tear sliding down her left cheek. Yet her faced remained composed, almost serene. What sort of girl was this? He was reminded of stories of the weeping Madonna, of stone statues of the serene Mother who sometimes wept actual tears for the faithful.

At work he felt almost sick with longing and could not concentrate on his work at all. It was all so dumb, so meaningless and mundane, compared with thoughts of–-

How stupid was this? He didn’t even know her goddamned name!

But she was a goddess. She was a mystery. He didn’t see her on the train that evening, but that night, Peter woke up several times soaked in sweat and coming each time. His balls felt like they would explode.

His heart was pounding and his skin felt clammy that morning as he boarded the train. It was raining, a cold drizzle that warned of the approaching cold weather. At first he didn’t see her, and was momentarily overcome with both relief and deep disappointment. Deflated, he chose a seat and opened the paper on his lap. He felt almost like crying himself.

“Hi,” said a soft, light voice.

Peter startled, and looked up. The girl stood there, her long legs looking smooth and buttery. Today she wore a white tank top that skimmed her high, upswept breasts, and a khaki skirt that offered just a suggestion of shapely thighs below. With a small nervous hand, she brushed a lock of long warm brown hair back behind her ear.

Peter felt dizzy and could not speak at first. He was afraid his erection was noticeable, even under the newspaper, and he crossed his legs.

“May I sit here?’ she asked.

“Uh. Sure!” God, he sounded like an idiot. How old was he? Twelve or twenty-six?

She smiled sweetly with those full pink lips. Her cheeks were dry today and her lashes looked feathery instead of spiky. Rain pelted outside the window.

“What’s your name?” she asked

“Uh...Peter.”

“I love that name. That’s my little brother’s name.”

“Really?” he asked stupidly.

“Yes,” and then she smiled again.

What was her name? “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Kristen.”

Kristen. It was beautiful and simple. Like her.

Impulsively, not thinking, he reached out and closed his hand around hers. It felt warm and small and a little sweaty. The bones felt delicate, like bird’s bones. With his other hand he closed his paper, and tried to arrange the bottom of his button-down shirt over the front of his pants without looking too obvious.

Peter closed his eyes, succumbing to the intoxicating and frightening emotions boiling in his gut. He squeezed her hand, loosened his grip, then lightly touched his fingertips to hers. The effect was electrifying and he felt as if he were melting. He shifted again, crossing his legs the other way, desperately trying to hide his throbbing erection. If he sat here like this long enough, he thought he may come spontaneously.

He heard a soft wet sound and opened his eyes in time to catch her brushing tears from her cheeks with her free hand.

“Um, Kristen?”

She looked at him quizzically, smiling her sad smile.

“I don’t want to embarrass you or anything, and I know it’s none of my business, but, um, what makes you cry like that?”

Kristen looked down at her lap, and Peter saw a tear suddenly fall on the crest of one of her breasts, leaving a small dark spot on her tank top. Her hair fell across her cheek. Peter impulsively reached out to brush it away, and she looked at him again. Her eyes looked deeper green than usual and cliché or not, Peter felt himself drowning in them.

He needed to make love to her. He needed to know her mysteries.

The train pulled into the station. The idea of not seeing her until tomorrow felt like being stabbed in the gut.

They stood up together, and he took her hand in both of his, his paper tucked in his satchel.

“Kristen, will I see you again tomorrow?”

“Peter...I’m sorry about the tears. I’ll explain sometime.” Her breasts shifted under her top and her nipples were clearly visible. He wondered if she were aware of this and thought she probably was not.

He tried not to stare.

“It’s okay, Kristen. Only if you want to and whenever you’re ready. I just want you to know that, uh, you can trust me. ”

Impulsively, just like that, she kissed him on the cheek. She smelled like soap and water. Fresh. Young. Innocent even.

“Will you be here tomorrow?”

“Probably,” was all she said. She smoothed her khaki skirt and smiled.

“Goodbye Peter.”

Goodbye, Kristen.”

“I’m glad we met.”

“So am I.”

Peter practically skipped to his office. What the hell was happening to him?

But he knew. He was in love. There was no denying it anymore.

In his dreams that night they made love. He found Kristen on a wooden swing suspended from a huge oak tree, and she was nude except for a white diaphanous gown that caressed and molded to her curves. Her long fine hair flew in the wind behind her like a silky amber liquid. The hem of her gown bunched around her pretty knees as she swung high in the air. She slowed down as he approached her and smiled. Her breasts looked full and ripe, upswept like the wind.

Her legs were parted slightly, and Peter felt the fabric of his trousers strain from his fulminating erection. He unbuttoned his trousers, letting them fall to the ground, and naked now, he joined her on the swing, facing her. She wrapped her legs around his waist. He lifted Kristen’s thin gown above her smooth hips and glimpsed the pearls of wetness on her thighs. It reminded him of her endless tears. More nectar glistened on the swollen petals of her labia, which were opening to him like a dusky morning rose. Gathering her in his arms, he slid inside of her as easily as breathing, kissing her deeply. They began to swing gently. No thrusts were needed; the rocking of the swing did the work for them. He felt an opening up, a rising, and felt like they were both being swept up together in some new and delicious dimension. He felt their bodies melt into each other, their cells throbbing together and merging until they were no longer two individuals, but something much more than that. He opened his eyes and gazed into her ocean colored eyes. The emotions churning inside him were overwhelming, but he could not stop–did not want to stop them. They swang higher and the rocking became more urgent. He could not get deeply enough inside her. But her muscles molded themselves to his shape, cradling him, milking him....

Peter woke up, coming intensely. His whole body was caught in a series of delicious spasms. His legs and stomach were soaked and he felt lightheaded. He rolled over and looked at his clock, realizing it was not yet time to get up. He dreaded the weekend. What would he do if he couldn’t see Kristen for two whole days? He had to talk to her later today on the train, set up a date. Of course that’s what he would do. But what if she was busy, or worse, did not want to see him?

Damn, he was becoming obsessed. He didn’t even know this girl, had hardly exchanged a paragraph of conversation with her. Angrily, he pushed a lock of sweaty dark hair off his forehead and pulled the covers back over his head...

They lay together in a moss covered meadow under a high canopy of trees which gave the meadow the appearance and mood of a cathedral. Birds sang high in the whispering treetops, but down here on the loamy and verdant ground the sounds were muffled. She lay naked, her back to him, his arms wrapped around her waist. Her silky buttocks pressed into his groin and his erection pressed against the hollow of the small of her back. He listened to her rhythmic breathing and instinctively began to thrust his pelvis. Propping his head on his hand, he saw a droplet or pearly nectar trickle down the back of her thigh. He shifted down so his penis could enter her from behind and let the swollen head tease her wet opening. He heard her moan and she began to absorb him into herself. When they came together this time, they both wept.

...and they could not stop. Now she sat on a large log, her thighs parted, smiling at him. Her breasts shifted against the smooth skin of her upper arms and her nipples looked like pink pencil erasers. The river between her legs was flowing swiftly and he knelt before her reverently, and drank hungrily. The sweetness flowed faster than he could feed. Arching back and thrusting with her pelvis her stiff labia opened up and he slid inside her and melted again...

When he awoke again it was late afternoon and the sunlight was already attaining the golden look of late afternoon. Shit! Had he forgotten to set the alarm? He checked and realized he had. He was losing his mind, that’s for sure. He realized with a sinking in his chest that he hasd missed seeing Kristen on the train that day. He was a sticky mess and he felt physically and emotionally spent. He felt a wave of nausea, then realized he had not eaten in nearly 24 hours.

He wiped himself with a dirty T-shirt lying on the floor, called work (his boss was more sympathetic than he imagined), and made himself eat something. His appetite was gone and the peanut butter and jelly sandwich he made himself tasted like sand. He washed it down with yesterday’s warmed-up coffee. He could smell himself and decided to take a shower.

But the water sluicing down over Peter’s body had a cathartic effect. His emotions roiled and then loosened, then spilled out in deep sobs and a flood of tears that mingled with the shower water. It felt both good and horrible at the same time. His erection was coming back, dammit. What was he going to do?

He could not concentrate on anything that evening, not even cooking or TV, so he fixed himself a frozen dinner and went to bed. Thank God he would see her tomorrow.

But she wasn’t there. He asked the conductor if he’d seen the girl with the long amber hair and he just looked at him with a confused frown, as if he thought Peter were crazy.

“Are you sure? She’s beautiful, you couldn’t miss her.”

“Never seen her,” the conductor said as he continued to move down the aisle.

There was a middle-aged overweight lady Peter always saw on the train, and he knew she must have seen Kristen.

“Sorry, I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

Peter didn’t see her the next week, or the week after that. Was he crazy? Had Kristen never really existed at all?

Late summer became fall, and then it was Halloween, Christmas, New Year's. Peter sat alone on the train each day, and didn't even bother bringing a paper or book to read anymore. But he had no energy, and no interest in his work (not that he ever did). Finally his boss fired him for slacking off but even so, Peter continued to ride the train in spite of his rapidly diminishing funds, hoping and praying to see Kristen again. February came and went, and then the weather began to turn mild again. He didn't care about the tears that slid down his cheeks as he stared out the grimy window, and didn't try to brush them away.

He didn’t care what anyone thought of him.

“Why do you cry like that?”

A soft, light voice.

Peter looked up. Kristen stood there, smiling at him, her small short-nailed hands clasped in front of her.

Her cheeks were dry.

And she was pregnant.

“May I sit here?” she asked.

He didn’t know what to say. His heart thumped stupidly against the inside wall of his chest.

Still smiling at him, she reached for Peter’s hand and placed it against her bulging stomach, her own hand covering his.

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