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.