Michael Writes Again

Dulles Airport was a mistake.

Lyla told her husband this many times as he purchased the tickets. She reminded him when they woke up late and paid 70 dollars for an Uber to tear across the Washington D.C. metropolitan area to make their plane on time. She brought it up on their return flight, while he was reading some mass-produced paperback novel and she was tired of browsing through her phone. She expressed it now as they waited for their train, the final one from Ashburn into D.C.

She said, “It’s going to be a long train ride.”

She sighed at the end to emphasize her frustration.

Her husband, Roland, remained silent. He had his jacket draped over his arm and stood next to his plastic suitcase, the one with the wheels and extendable handle, and he peered at the marquee that read “SV Largo 4 min.”

Lyla sighed again, louder this time. “What is it? About an hour?”

Roland, glanced at his watch. It was an expensive gadget with a custom leather strap. He cleared his throat and said, “The sign says it will take 4 minutes to get here.”

Lyla frowned. Roland rarely understood her. They seemed to be speaking two different languages. She was used to it. It was her lot in life—to be misunderstood.

On the train, they picked seats that faced another pair of seats, wanting the extra leg room. Roland squeezed his suitcase in front of him and Lyla rolled hers in the center aisle. The car was empty, but full of scents. Lyla caught the smell of perfume, and mint. There was also the stink of wet and body odor that haunted the thin brown carpet and the orange and yellow padding on the seats. It was an older model of the Metro trains, and this Lyla also blamed on Roland.

“Too bad we can’t open a window,” she said, but she noticed that Roland had leaned over his large suitcase with his head in his arms, breathing in generously and calmly. He would go to sleep when I’m upset with him, she thought.

Just then the train stopped and the doors opened. The train operator spoke something garbled in the intercom. Lyla rolled her eyes. There were about two dozen stops between now and the Eastern Market stop she would need to get off on. Out here, in the “outskirts” of Northern Virginia, the stops were fairly far apart.

A man walked in just before the doors closed. A handsome man, Lyla noticed. She watched him as he looked around the train. He grabbed one of the poles in the center and leaned casually on it. Everything about him seemed casual. He wore sandals for one—sandals on the train—but his feet looked clean with trimmed nails. His legs were thick and muscular, brushed with course blonde hair. Lyla peeked at his shorts, a baby blue and high on his thick thighs and hugging his square, masculine hips. His shirt was, like his shorts, fitted to his frame, bulging out with his chest and trying haphazardly to swallow at his rounded biceps. His neck was thin and contrasted with his cheeks which where angular and stubbled, his lips parted into a smile. Lyla looked up at his face, his unobtrusive nose, his small ears, his hair—mostly a medium brown but freckled gray. His eyes were sapphire blue and she admired them as strobes of streetlights swept across his face before she realized that she was staring and that he was staring back.

Lyla looked away, feeling embarrassed. The handsome man strutted forward from his pole and walked down the center aisle to her. He squeezed into the seat in front of her and Lyla found herself looking down at his feet again, lifting her eyes over his body, now much more detailed. Much thicker. He smelled like bergamot and leather.

Roland rustled on his suitcase. Lyla held her breath as he muttered something and then began to snore lightly.

She heard the man chuckle. She looked back to him and watched his features again, breathing him in. He nodded toward Roland and Lyla shrugged her shoulders. She straightened as he looked from her face to her hands, folded neatly in her lap. Her wedding ring felt heavy and garish, but he seemed to dismiss it and looked down to her knees and her legs. He leaned back in his seat and stretched his muscled arms in the air, his shirt rose above his shorts and Lyla watched hungrily as his feet reached out so that the tips of his toes touched the white base of her walking shoes.

She wished she was barefoot. She wished anything that he would just reach out and touch her, that she could reach out and touch him.

The train stopped and a few people walked in. How many, Lyla couldn’t say. She kept an eye on the man’s feet, which he now scooted just a little between hers. He slipped out of his sandals and placed his feet over them. He rubbed a toe on her shoe and Lyla held back a sigh.

It was silly really—just vibrations on her soles. They weren’t actually touching. Roland… she glanced at him. He was still asleep, facing the opposite direction. He was always not paying attention. And wasn’t this his fault? Wasn’t he the one that insisted on Dulles Airport?

There were a few more stops. People got off. People got on. But there was the man, still rubbing her shoes, inching closer to her ankles. He pulled back his feet, sliding the sandals back to his side of the space between them and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

Lyla quivered. Was he going to touch her? Would he kiss her? Her heart raced and her skin felt hot.

He placed a hand on her knee and rubbed. He had large hands, big fingers, a firm grip that was both gentle and intentional. Lyla felt her face flush, she closed her eyes as he massaged her, rising higher on her skin, higher to the edges of her skirt.

There was laughter and Lyla opened her eyes. The man had pulled back instantly and slid his feet back into his sandals, a worried expression deformed his handsome face. Lyla was confused, but she sat upright and turned to her left to the seat across the center aisle.

A girl, late teens or early twenties (Lyla couldn’t tell for sure), smiled into her phone. The camera on the back of it was pointed in Lyla’s direction.

Lyla gasped dramatically and the man stood up quickly and made his way to the front of the car. The girl laughed again, and Lyla felt her skin scald in embarrassment.

What if the girl posted this on social media? What if the video went viral? Lyla pictured the scene, her writhing in her seat as the man had rubbed her leg, being displayed on TikTok, Instagram, YouTube… She heard some rustling next to her. Roland—good, kind Roland—was waking up. Didn’t Roland often watch those viral videos on YouTube? Didn’t he often try to show her things on Facebook at night, when they were tucked into their bed, laughing and talking as sleep escaped them. Oh, Roland, she thought.

The girl was still pointing her phone at Lyla and grinning.

“Are you watching something funny?” Lyla asked. Perhaps there was no recording. Perhaps the girl was just laughing at something she was watching on her phone. Maybe there was no reason to worry.

“What?” the girl responded in a bright, jovial voice.

“You keep smiling at your phone. Is it… you know… funny?” Lyla thought her heart would leap out of her ribcage.

The girl cocked an eyebrow. She looked in Roland’s direction, then back at Lyla. Her smile turned to a smirk.

“Yeah, something like that,” she said, smartly.

The train stopped and Lyla watched as the girl stood up, walked to the rear of the car, and stepped outside.

“Nearly home,” Roland said beside her.

The train scurried across the tracks to the underground tunnels and the windows became dark.

Roland reached for her hand, and Lyla took his nervously. They rode in silence, slipping beneath the streets of the District, unseen by the sky.