Subway

         It was nearing two a.m. when Wendy found herself wrapped tightly around a pole in a sparsely populated subway train. She was gripping it as hard as she could, as her balance was failing her and her surroundings seemed to be spinning. Standing beside her was Tristan, the fair-featured bellhop from the hotel who had accompanied her that evening. He was watching her with concern.

         “Maybe you should sit down?” he suggested hesitantly, gesturing at the rows of empty seats around them. Wendy struggled to focus on him, then shook her head firmly.

         “No,” she replied forcefully. “We’re almost to my stop. I’m fine.”

         “You’ve been saying that all night,” Tristan replied. “You don’t look fine.” He moved his arm around her back to steady her.

         “Well, I am,” she snapped. “Please stop touching me.”

         He drew his arm back, but moved it quickly around her again when the train shuddered to a stop. She didn’t seem to notice. Instead, she stared intently out the window, trying to make sense of the signs outside.

         “I get off here,” Wendy announced, releasing the pole and stumbling toward the exit. Tristan moved forward to help her to the door.

         “I can do it myself,” she said, shrugging away from his arm. He eyed her with disbelief.

         "I’ll walk you home,” he offered.

         “No. Thanks. I can do it myself.” She straightened up and marched out the door in the most convincing manner she could muster.

         “So, can I call you?” Tristan called after her.

         “I’ll call you,” Wendy responded pointedly. The subway doors closed and she promptly turned away from Tristan’s concerned face in the window. Then she threw up in the nearest trash can. When she was done, she spat angrily and worked her way out of the subway maze. She climbed a dirty flight of stairs and found herself on the sidewalk of west 86th street.

         The walk home was a blur. The streets were fairly empty and it was only two blocks to her family’s apartment. The entire experience would be absent from her memory the following day. Before she even realized she’d left the subway station, she was already forcing a key into the lock on the main building of the apartment. Wendy gripped the stair rail, told herself (out loud) that it was time to focus, and scaled several flights of stairs until she reached apartment number nine.

         She hesitated at the door, then passed by and continued up the stairs. When she reached the top, she forced open the sticky door that led to the rooftop. The air was crisp and a little too cool, but she took a seat on one of the lawn chairs that had been placed up there and pulled her jacket tighter around her. In doing so, she felt a lump in one pocket and reached to investigate, discovering a pack of Camel menthols and an attractive black lighter. She slid a cigarette out of the package and lit it. They weren’t hers. Frankly, Wendy hadn’t the slightest idea how she had acquired the items. She never bought cigarettes herself, and smoked only when intoxicated. It was something to keep her hands busy, perhaps even a ploy to meet people at parties. Excuse me, do you have a light? Nice to meet you. I’m Wendy.

         She tapped the cigarette clumsily and watched the ashes disappear on the concrete floor beside her. She was losing interest in it already. Wendy held the cigarette idly her in hand and watched empty rooftops from her lawn chair. When the lights of the city became more than her brain could handle, she closed her eyes and wished that everything would stop spinning. Something buzzed in her right pocket, and she reached in to extract her cell phone. An unfamiliar number slid across the caller ID screen. They could leave a message.

         She waited. A few seconds later, the phone vibrated again, notifying her of a voicemail. She checked the message. It was Tristan, calling to ensure that she had arrived home safely. Wendy rolled her eyes in annoyance and snapped the cell phone shut with force. She tried to recall how he had gotten her number, since they had arranged their outing while at work. He was boring. She didn’t mean for him to have her number, and she certainly didn’t want his. When she’d told him that she would call later, she hadn’t meant it. Wendy was prepared to pretend that they had never gone out, was setting herself up for weeks of awkward interactions at work in which she would pretend nothing had ever happened, was ready to go out of her way to avoid ever bumping into him.

         It was what she did. She was practically an expert at it. The phone message only fueled her motive.

         She returned the phone to her pocket and closed her eyes again. The spinning was subsiding slightly. She adjusted to a more comfortable position and let the cigarette slip out of her hand, then removed her glasses and tucked them away with her phone. Within a few moments, Wendy was sound asleep on a plastic lawn chair on the roof of her apartment building.