No. Her eyes are glassed over, seeing through me. She curls her tiny nose up and wrinkles her chin, as if suppressing a sneeze. Her nostrils grow wider, as though she’s stopped breathing. Then she gives a tiny snort and pulls her lips back, revealing a pair of sharp incisors. She doesn’t want to cry, but two droplets spill over. Oh, she sees me now. Her black pupils swell into focus. She sees me and glares, spinning around to face the bay of phones.
Must be a telephone breakup. Crap boyfriend. He’s probably cheating on her too, or at least she suspects it. Although maybe not. Girls being cheated on usually go for the jugular, play the hysterical card. They don’t even try not to cry.
She hangs up the phone and half turns her head. Funny, I don’t remember hearing her say boo into the phone. It’s like she just took it, whatever it was.
The lady and the businessman stand up. Two trains boarding, mine included. Roller girl’s sitting down, legs tucked underneath her, crying a little more obviously now. Platform 3B, ten minutes to departure. Oh what the hell, I guess I have time.
“You okay?” I say to the top of her head.
“Please,” she says, pushing her hair back, looking up. Her makeup is smudged from here to last night. “What?” Her words are heavily accented.
“Do you need help?”
She shakes her head.
“Should I leave you alone?”
She squints her face up. Her eyes are light brown, babypoo brown.
“Do you have a problem?” I say slowly, idiotically. “Do... you... need... help?” I make a futile gesture with my hands.
She looks down, wipes her nose childishly, and then starts, as though she has an idea. Craning her neck to see behind me, she leans out, taking in the concourse from left to right. I check the time. Seven minutes to go. The train on track 3B is westbound to Oakville...
“If you’re okay, I have to go catch the train now, it’s just, you seemed upset...”
“I go train,” she says quickly. “You go?”
“Mississauga,” I say. “Clarkson. You?”
She nods her head. “Yes!” she says, smiling with a mouthful of tiny white teeth, all crooked, but sweetly arranged. “Take me?”
“Train is going now,” I say. “You live in Mississauga, going there?”
“Yes, train. Sauga.”
“I go now,” I say, adopting her caveman speak. “You want come?”
She swings her knees around, tight skirt clinging to her thighs, and stands up awkwardly. Flash of black panties, porcelain skin. The rollerblades come off the floor with a clatter.
We hurry across the room to the escalator. I step aside to let roller girl go up first. She keeps glancing back, as though she’s trying to catch me at something. Maybe she’s realized I’m gay. Some women are like that, as though you’ll automatically find them irresistible. She must think I’m watching her ass the whole way up. As it happens, she wouldn’t be half wrong.
We get to the platform, the hulking green double-decker in view. She hesitates.
“You’re sure you want the GO train?” I ask. “Not subway? Underground? Metro?”
She shakes her head emphatically.
“Clarkson,” she replies, smiling a little.
“This is the one,” I say, stepping past her into the train. The doors have started beeping. She scoots in behind me. I lead the way upstairs and locate two window seats on the half-level. We interrupt the pair sitting on the aisle. I don’t get train-sick, so I let roller girl have the forward-facing side. She pulls her skirt down as far as it will go and sits, offloading her purse and rollerblades between our feet.
The train starts up, slow and clunking. I lean my head on the window frame and close my eyes. I’m about to settle into my commuter-nap, when I hear roller girl gasp. She pushes her body back into her seat, away from the glass. I look out onto the platform, but there’s just some guy there, overweight and wearing a too-small suit buttoned over his paunch. He’s out of breath, brown comb-over flapping in the breeze like a question mark above his head. He gives the train a hard stare, heads back downstairs. I look over at roller girl, but her eyes are closed now, lips thin, as though she’s holding her breath.
How old is she? I wonder. With a body like that, could she be a day over eighteen?
We roll out of Union Station, past the CN Tower, heading west along the highway. I never would have moved to the burbs, but when my parents gave me their condo by the tracks, it seemed stupid to look that gift horse in the mouth. My folks had planned on retiring there, so it’s fully loaded: two bedrooms, two bathrooms, huge closets, and walking distance to everything. It’s so convenient that when they decided to retire to B.C., to be closer to the grandkids (knowing full well they weren’t getting any munchkins out of me), I couldn’t think of how I could say no.
Roller girl’s head lolls forward, her legs slightly splayed. I take off my jacket and lay it across her lap. I don’t know why I’m protecting the modesty of a girl who chooses to wear a dress like that, but I feel a whole lot better after she’s covered up. She doesn’t stir, and I don’t think she’s faking. Her hands are half-open, limp. Hands don’t lie.
I wake up around Port Credit. Roller girl smiles. She’s pulled my jacket up to her chin and curled her arms behind it. My mouth is dry. I fish an old bottle of Evian out of my briefcase, peel my tongue off the back of my teeth, and take a swig, swishing the lukewarm water around like mouthwash.
“Next stop,” I say. I rotate my finger once forward to make sure she understands.
“What name?” roller girl says, furrowing her eyebrows. “What. Is. Your. Name,” she says with the emphatic diction of an ESL class.
“Chris,” I say, trying to look pleased. I’m still asleep. “Yours?”
“Magda.”
“Nice to meet you, Magda,” I say, speaking slowly. I reach out to shake her hand. She smiles.
“Yes,” she says. Her hand is small, but not soft. She must work, I think, although how she can do anything with those nails is beyond me. Maybe they’re acrylic. “Nice you,” she says, to the rhythm of a gentle shake. “Nice. To. Meet. You.”
We let go and look to the window. After a minute, I stand up and Magda hands me my jacket. She scoops her blades and bag off the floor and shimmies down the stairs behind me. Magda holds onto the passenger pole, swaying. I wonder who her friends are — maybe cousins? I imagine a gaggle of leggy blondes on the platform, waiting for Magda. Meet friend, Chris? I should be so lucky. No, it’ll be a short walk back to the condo, followed by a half-hearted root around the freezer. I wonder if there’s still some lemon sole in there. Fishtastic, I think.
The train pulls into the station.
“This is it!” I smile at Magda, pointing ridiculously.
We wait for the doors to open and step out. Magda keeps pace with me along the platform. Too bad, I was sort of hoping to lose her in the crowd. I walk to the edge of the Kiss-n-Ride, then turn to say goodbye. Cars wait expectantly like so many famished pigeons, edging forward to collect their passengers before moving away.
“Goodbye, Magda. Nice meeting you. You wait here, yes?
For your friends?”
“No friends,” she says.
“Don’t worry, your friends will come.”
“No friends,” she says again. “You friend. I go with you.”
“Whoa, Magda, what are you talking about?”
“Go with you, Clark-son.” She’s not smiling anymore, she’s holding onto my arm. “Chris, friend.”
“You can’t just come with me.”
“Please!” she says, eyes wide, tugging at my arm. A couple walk past and pause, looking on.