Baby blue spooled out from the bag and snaked along the seat. It ran across her thigh. She pulled the yarn along. Small, insect-like movements turned the thin thread into the heap of blue in her lap. What it was, you couldn’t tell. Perhaps it would be a sweater like the one she was wearing: baggy and scratchy. Her wrists looked so small coming out those big sleeves. But there was no sleeve or neck or cuff in that pile, just blue ringlets spilling over her seat and swooping into the aisle. Still you decided it had to be a sweater.
You watched as she gave the yarn form and dimension. There was nothing else to look at on this long ride. The usual tricks—podcasts, books, the view out the window—had failed. This was it. She did not pause. She did not reach for food or drink or music. If she was breathing, you couldn’t tell. You imagined she took a sweater to be just one very complicated knot.
You wondered if you were heading for the same place, if you’d maybe see her in class one day. She’d be wearing that same furrowed expression she had now. You’d make a comment and she’d raise her hand and she’d tell you, in a perfectly cordial fashion, that you were an idiot.
Both needles in one hand, the other reached for the bag. She grabbed a tube of grape chapstick. Grape? That wasn’t a flavor chapstick came in. You leaned forward. What brand was this? The seat creaked under you. She looked towards the sound.
You turned to the window until she popped the cap of the chapstick back on and the clack of the needles resumed. You couldn’t remember the color of her eyes. That seemed like an important detail. That seemed like something you should know about a stranger on a train you were going to give your number. Years later, you would say to people, “The first thing I noticed about her was her eyes.” Because that was romantic and because it sounded right. You didn’t want to have to lie about that. You hoped she caught the color of your eyes, even as they ran to the window.
You got up. You went to the bathroom. She didn’t look when you passed. Returning to your seat, you spied a book inside her bag. It had bold text and bright colors on a white background. It was a pop-psychology self-help book. The kind of book you could buy in a train station. She might have no intention to read it. You wondered if she bought it just to add weight to her bag. The heavier the bag, the more purposeful the journey, you reasoned. This was a stupid thought. She probably just liked to read. Maybe she read like she knit: inched steadily and without rest, stringing word after word into a chain of meaning.
You planned an approach. It would be simple and quick. Any interruption could prove disastrous. You might interrupt at just the wrong time and the sweater would unravel. The needles would fly. She’d look up, crying and holding the tangled yarn like entrails. You decided to wait until she was done knitting. How long would it take? She would have to get tired soon. You closed your eyes.
The mounting sound of rain on the window awoke you. You bolted up. A baby blue blanket slipped from your shoulder. You stared at it, looking for something hidden in its folds. Her seat was empty. You had a few more hours ahead of you and no one to approach. You pulled the blanket back over you and leaned into the window. Do you remember what you dreamt?
