The man who waved.

It’s about 6:30, so still very much light. So I’m still very much visible to those waiting for the train below me. Which means an average of a half dozen worried glances are coming my way as I sit on a ledge cross-legged.

It’s Cinco de Mayo, and I wonder if it’s the cause of the empty waiting platform. Is everyone drinking tequila but me? I have a glass of Chardonnay but am now wishing I'd stopped and bought tequila and limes. But perhaps then I would have felt sad to celebrate alone. Chardonnay is a single girl's drink.

Two girls buy tickets. They’re wearing flats and skinny jeans and low-cut tops so they must be going somewhere that is not the library.

Two handsome businessmen get off at this stop. One is gay. I can tell by the walk. It's a quick step, feet close together so hips sway like I do when I walk past a man I want to look at me.

A man pushes a wheelchair with an elderly man in it who has some sort of head brace contraption on that involves pins and looks painful. There is a hospital a few stops down. I imagine they are going there. Though I hope I am wrong. Perhaps they are going out for margaritas instead. There is no reason not to celebrate, even when one is in a wheelchair and a head brace with pins in it.

A white convertible drives past with two middle-age men in it. One is balding. “No,” he told his friends, “This is not a mid-life crisis car. I just want to feel the wind in what hair I have left. And also, my life is leaving me for her personal trainer.”

The man pushing the man in the wheelchair spots me and surprises me with an exuberant wave. I wave back. I am glad someone is not doubting my abilities to sit on a ledge without hurdling off. I am a grown woman for godssake.

I should go to the gym. As soon as I finish this glass of wine.

A man dressed in a blue sweatshirt and a blue cap and blue jeans walks slowly from one end of the platform to another. It is nearly 80 degrees sir. A sweatshirt is an ambitious choice for the evening.

He sits down to wait for the train. There is no one else to write about now, so I imagine this man's story. He is headed to volunteer with the blind. He will take them to the park and describe what the children look like playing. When the sun begins to set, he will say, “And now God rests his eyes.”

My Neighbor Has a Typewriter.

Red shoes man is back. I am giddy. The familiarity of him is comforting, and yet recognizing him also makes me feel stalkerish. I want to shout down to him, "Are those your only shoes sir?"

If so, they are a good pair to have. People will remember you.

A drunk couple gets off the train. She makes him stop walking, though it seems he just wants to get home. She pulls him to her and kiss-rapes his face for an extended period of time. He doesn't seem to mind.

She stumbles away but doesn’t see where the platform drops off. She’s down. Drunk girl down. Oh god, hopefully the train is not coming. He tries to help her up but she wants to rest. They both stand in the middle of the tracks. This is like an old Western film. Oh good, they’re making it to train-free ground now.

It is cold enough to warrant a sweater tonight, warm enough not to need socks.

Wait, could that be true? I hear a typewriter noise coming from the open window of the neighbor I’ve only met once, when he stumbled out onto his balcony in his boxer shorts one morning, squinting in the bright sun and not looking at me only feet away from him. He muttered “Jesus” under his breath -- in exasperation, not prayer -- before going back inside.

Of course he would have a typewriter. Probably has a record player too. And a harmonica. And he collects old wooden postcards with birds on them. And makes his own vanilla extract. He is typing his memoirs now. He's on the chapter about his mother. He hits the keys with ire. I am certain it is about this mother.

A man who looks like a cross between Santa and Jesus carries a sleeping mat on his back, but he’s not homeless. I’m not sure why I can tell this for sure, but I can. He is obviously just a wayward traveler. Or, more likely, it is a new type of yoga mat that I don’t know about yet. It’s made out of recycled bark and cocoa beans. Mine is pink. Obviously.

Now my foot is asleep underneath me. A sign that I’ve sat out here long enough. Some day, I will buy a chair and this won’t happen. I also won’t risk death. Something tells me I’ll still find my way onto this ledge now and again though.

What is it About Men and Babies?

Wednesday, 8:30 p.m.

A 20-something man carries a baby -- not an infant and not yet in that annoying stage of asking too many questions or running into traffic. She is content in his arms in a crotcheted white sweater. I know babies and white clothing don't seem like a logical mix, but someday, I will dress my baby in white to remind people of angelic things and sugar, so when my baby throws up mashed peas it will be precious.

The heels of the man's business shoes click as he walks fast. I wonder if he’s nervous. He has a baby by himself. Why do I think that’s unusual? Maybe I’m sexist. He puts the toddler down and, holding on to one of her tiny hands, lets her waddle unsteadily around the waiting platform. She picks up things she finds, examining each one for a second before dropping it again. A little scientist. He lets her. He doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t either. Of course, I’m not sure if she even knows words yet.

There’s something undeniably attractive about an already attractive man with a baby.

Rainbow suspenders. A short, bald fat man with a tan pants and a red shirt and rainbow suspenders that crisscross on his back. I can overhear the woman walking next to him say, "Maybe it's the rainbow suspenders." I wonder if he asked, "Why do you love me?"

A young girl sits and waits by herself, hugging her arms close to her body for a minute, then letting them fall, folding her hands and slipping them in between her knees. She has a high ponytail and a backpack and out of the latter, she pulls a little white case, folds her hands back around it and places her hands back between her knees. There must be something important inside. Her last $5 bill. A rosary. Her new birth control.

A man straight out of 1994 is dressed in tight red plaid pants with metal embellishments covering them, a wallet chain, a bandanna and argyle shoes. He sits next to a woman with fake-black hair that is starting to turn back to the color nature intended, and they talk with their heads close to one another. They have secrets, but they are the good kind, because they intermittently smile.

The train comes and a man with white dress shoes gets off. He has a small camera and he takes three pictures of the empty chairs where people wait, and one picture of the ticket machine. Then he walks away.

There is an old man on a bike. He looks weathered, but determined. He parks his bike, walks five feet away from it and kneels down. I think he might pray, but he’s only tying his shoe. I don’t know why he couldn’t do that near his bike. He takes out a comb and combs his hair. Ah, he’s going on a date. Obviously. His slacks and sweater match. He is trying. He picks his nose. I’m watching you sir. Don’t turn around or you’ll be embarrassed.

The man with the baby gets closer. Yes, it is confirmed. He is devastatingly handsome. He has on a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. But that baby didn’t pop out of him, so there must be a woman in his life. Even if they’re not together, they are for sure entangled.

The old man going on a date takes his cell phone out and checks it intently. I hope he or she isn’t canceling on him. He got dressed up. He puts his hand on his hip defiantly. This doesn’t look good. He makes a call.

The train arrives. The adorable man with a baby gets on. Well, goodbye then.

If Dogs Took Trains.

Tuesday, 8 p.m.

A dog! Dogs should wait for trains more. But I suppose, why would they because they love to walk so? Except mine. He would definitely take the train. He would just get on the train, fall asleep, taking up two seats – or more if he could – and stay on it all day, waking up only when someone who just purchased fast food got on. Then he would sweet talk them until some sort of French fry or chicken nugget found its way into his mouth.

He would probably get off at the library stop and check out a book on how to make French fries. He'd ask the librarian if they had the DVD Milo and Otis in. He'd take a free bookmark to chew on during the train ride home.

A man and his father wait for the train. They hold bright tickets to the basketball game. I’m jealous. The young man is handsome, but I can’t tell if he’s a young-looking 28 or old-looking 18. They don’t see me yet. Four more men approach the chairs. It’s a man-a-palooza tonight. That heavyset man should not be wearing horizontal stripes. He must not be married or she would tell him that.

My foot underneath me is asleep. Now this is a problem.

The train arrives. Bye handsome man.

A man approaches the waiting area with a sleeping bag slung over his back and a pillow under his arm. I’m guessing he’s homeless and not going to a sleepover. He has a red bandanna in his back pocket. He should put it on. His whole outfit is black and the red would be nice.

He counts his money. He has several bills, and I wonder what he is considering buying with them. I would probably buy gummy worms, though not a sound investment. I wish the world was safe enough for me to invite him upstairs and offer him a sandwich and put his sleeping bag in the wash for him. I’m sure it’d be nice to sleep on it tonight smelling like Bounty Fresh and not train station.

Before the sky turns black, it turns blue and then lavender. I feel like the art museum down the street that people pay to get into has nothing on the view of a city skyline at night.

A police car drives past slower than the rest of the traffic. I hope he’s not responding to reports of a possibly suicide girl wielding a Mac and a glass of Chardonnay.

The train pulls up and there is a man by the window who looks like could be my father. There is a visceral reaction that happens to my heart.

The food smell is gone and I can hear the person in the apartment above mine, with the windows open, washing silverware. There is no talking though. I wonder if he or she was eating alone. Or maybe there is a whole party of people up there, but they are all using sign language.

Two more couples wait for the train, probably to go to the game. I’m jealous again. Especially of that girl’s hair. It is effortlessly wavy like she wrapped sections around her finger and let it go and it just stayed like that. Girls with hair like that have an unfair advantage.

Sometimes, when I look down at the light rail, I think I can jump on top of it from where I sit and not only would I make it, but it wouldn’t hurt.

Not a single person waiting now. I’ll take that as my cue.

The Sobbing Girl.

Tuesday, 7 p.m.

A woman spots me sitting on the ledge. She nudges her husband. They both stare up at me with obvious looks of concern on their face. Maybe they can’t tell I have enough room up here to sit comfortably cross-legged.

What if they called the police and reported a jumper? But why would a girl who was preparing to commit suicide do so with a computer on her lap and a full glass of wine next to her? I am obviously serene, you see, otherwise I’d be drinking whiskey out of a paper bag, and I wouldn’t be wearing my friend’s sweater. If I were ever to leap off my balcony, I would for sure do it in my own clothes.

Someone in my building is cooking something that smells much better than my Lean Cuisine pizza-for-one was. Nothing makes a girl feel lonelier than a Lean Cuisine for dinner. Lunch, sure, Lean Cuisines are acceptable. But dinner is an occasion. There should be multiple courses involved. Some chopping of herbs. At least one simmering pot.

Something about sitting up here tonight makes me nervous all of a sudden. I blame the couple who stared up with concern at me. Now they have me reconsidering the dimensions of my perch.

A young couple is below me. They consider illegally crossing the tracks to get onto the waiting side, despite the prominently painted black and white warning, “DO NOT CROSS TRACKS.” It makes me think of Ghostbusters. “DO NOT CROSS THE STREAMS.” They rethink their decision and head to the crosswalk down the street. Everyone is nervous tonight.

Another older couple arrives for the train and spot me, exchanging looks of concern again. I smile this time. It doesn’t work. Their expressions remain skeptical. Now they think I’m suicidal and manic. I want to shout down to them, “I just don’t want to watch TV anymore!”

I hear her sobs first before spotting the woman they belong to. She is middle-aged, dressed in a black tank top and black capris with her hair up. She wipes away her tears as she walks and cries. I feel awful for her and wish I could ask her if she is all right. I send up a little prayer for her instead. She is carrying nothing. What could have happened? Did she just run out of her house? Did she just get dumped? Did she just get sick of her bratty children? Why didn’t she at least bring a snack? People walk past her. No one asks her if she is all right. She leaves the waiting area and walks back the way she came. Maybe she just needed to have a good cry.

The Man With Red Shoes.

Saturday, 10:30 a.m.

There's a man, a boy really, who can't be older than 20. Hispanic, with dark skin and a tight white tee shirt and crisp white shoes that might, now that I think about it, be attractive up close. He has a shaved head and he sits on the bar next to the chairs and doesn't look comfortable even though all the chairs are open. He looks like he's texting. Or maybe, like I do when I'm waiting for something, he's playing Wheel of Fortune on his phone.

When the train comes, he calmly walks away from it. The train pulls up and blocks my view of him. After the train leaves, I see him emerge from behind a large pole and calmly reclaim his seat on the uncomfortable looking bar that's close to the ground, that may have just been installed for aesthetic reasons.

Three middle-age tourists in varying lengths of khaki "travel shorts" stare in wonder at the ticket machine. Obviously this mode of transportation is a novelty to them.

Two young girls with matching long, dark, straight hair wait side by side. Maybe sisters. Maybe best friends. One of them has a backpack on. I wonder if they are running away. And if they only had one backpack to bring.

A man is dressed in blue jeans and a blue shirt. It's so much blue that it makes me think his skin has a blue tint to it. Then I notice that he has bright red shoes on. Why does he want to make a statement with his feet? He looks up and sees me typing three stories above him. I wonder if he thinks that makes me weird, or intriguing.

The black woman sitting on the chairs can’t stop twitching her foot. She appears nervous. She carries a plastic bag from the Circle K and smokes. She gets up, walks past the runaways. They stare at her after she passes. I wonder if they think she is pretty, or if they wish they had the courage to ask her for a cigarette.

She stops by the man who was afraid to get on the train and she takes a drink from the water fountain. She says something to him. He doesn’t answer. She paces back and forth in front of him, hoping he will notice her.

There are several pretty girls on pretty bikes with their hair in pigtails, but they're not together. I wonder if they each thought they'd be the only pretty girl with a pretty bike in the bunch, and then are embarrassed to find out they are wrong. They are trying to be retro-cool, and they're succeeding. It makes me long for a yellow bike with a basket that I would take to the farmer’s market and fill with fresh basil. I know I will never do this.

An man my age is in a motorized wheelchair, zooming around area where people wait for trains. Even from here, I can tell he has an attractive face. Overhead speakers announce the next train will arrive in two minutes. He is on his cell phone, laughing. I wish we were friends.

Red shoes is up, poised, ready for the train. I can see now he is balding on top of his head. That explains the shoes.

The train arrives and a woman who looks like Joan Jett is just getting to the ticket machine. She’ll never make this one. She doesn’t seem to care. That is the attitude of Saturday mornings.

The train stops and blocks my view temporarily of the other side. I bet red shoes got on. Will he think about the girl he saw, sitting on a high up ledge with a laptop, writing? Will he wonder if she was writing about him?

The train leaves and only the man who didn’t get on the first time is still here. I suddenly feel lonely and wish more people would come again soon. But the next train won’t arrive for another 15 minutes, and everyone seems to know this. They are just now leaving their apartments, stopping first for coffee at the café below me or running back inside to get a forgotten post-it note where they wrote their shopping list. Most likely it will have on it things like soap, paper towels, toilet paper and limes. It is a day for cleaning and later, they think, they will open up a Mexican beer and put a slice of lime in it and pretend like they are on vacation. This is their incentive, their reward. And it will make them smile as they scrub their bathroom.