I’m so glad there’s no one else on this platform. The train is late, it’s always late, so there should be more people waiting here, strange. I wouldn’t have taken the train if I knew this would happen. She pulled at her skirt, but even the white stockings couldn’t cover her indiscretion. I still can’t believe I actually did it. It must have been the tequila!
Meeting her sorority sisters after all this time, I guess I just wanted to see if I could still cut it, keep up. It was so hard when I was young and wanted to fit in. I thought being accepted by them would give me a way to do that. After a few weeks I realized it was just a club of wealthy, husband seeking women. Not for me, I wanted to be successful, have a career, be a “modern” woman.
Why are the Sunday trains always late? I need to be home early, I have meetings tomorrow. I should have left the reunion yesterday. Then last night wouldn’t have happened, and I’d be waking up in my own comfy bed. Instead I’m here on the side of the tracks, hoping no one notices me.
The dinner with her college friends was pleasant, each woman secretly trying to impress the others. Ten years gone by and nothing really changed except some hopes were realized, and some disintegrated. No one really admitted it out loud, but dreams were just that, dreams, and life is reality. She couldn’t complain of her own circumstances, she was a successful journalist with world travels at her back. The baby pictures shown did not impress her, she was perfectly happy as she was.
The night drew on and a few alumni decided to visit a bar down the street. She did some work related socializing, so was used to the atmosphere and the insincere banter. Her spirits rose as she lifted the shots of tequila. After an hour or two of conversing, she and another woman decided to walk outside for some fresh air. They were relaxed and uninhibited from the alcohol. They linked arms and swayed down the street, laughing at some advertising in the window of an all-night tattoo parlor. She looked at her companion, gave her a wink, and persuaded her to enter the establishment. It was unexpectedly neat and clean. Various papers hung on the walls depicting the latest tattoo trends. She suddenly felt unburdened by convention – this wasn’t something women did, and certainly not unattended by a man. The two women stood transfixed upon the owner, a heavily inked man, only wearing jeans and sandals. Every part of his upper body showing hundreds of pictures and sayings. They were fascinated.
She made a split second decision. She wanted her friend to see how independent she had become. She moved up to the man and asked about some of the drawings on his arms. He was more than proud to tell the stories. Her friend slumped down in a chair, realizing any protest made would go unheeded. After listening a while, she decided. I want a tattoo of my favorite quote. Where will it hurt the least?
Now here she was, in full view of God and country, with an indelible souvenir. Why is the Sunday train always late?