You had missed the ten fifty-two by six minutes and Yusuf had told you not to bother waiting for the eleven thirteen because that one only ran on Fridays. So you were on the platform for the eleven forty-seven and you had another thirty minutes. The station was empty except for the man mopping the far end and the vending machine humming to itself. You leaned back against the metal bench. You dug in your jacket pocket for the coin you had thumbed into the lining.
You dropped the coin. It rolled toward the yellow line. You stood up and bent down for it in one motion because you did not want to leave it on the tiles, and the motion did not go the way you had planned. The bend was easier. The knee was not the knee you had used a minute ago. You picked up the coin. The hand that held it was smaller. The nail on the thumb was longer than it should have been. It was painted a shade you did not own.
You sat back down. The bench was cold on the backs of your thighs, and the backs of your thighs were bare. Nothing under the pleated skirt that had replaced your jeans. Your legs were crossed at the knee. You had not crossed them. The tank top under the denim of your jacket was tight across a chest that had not been that chest ten minutes ago. Something red slid over your shoulder. Long. Warm. The end of it had gone lighter than the root.
You looked at the vending machine. It had a reflection dark enough to see yourself in. The girl in the glass had a side ponytail tied with a black ribbon and a streak of white in her bangs. She smiled a little because you did not know what else to do. She smiled back. You smelled the wet floor from where the man had been mopping. Bleach. The heater from the ceiling clicked on above you.
Somewhere down the platform a set of boots stopped. You did not turn your head. You looked at the reflection instead and watched the second silhouette come up behind yours in the glass. He was Yusuf. He had come to walk you home from the station like he did every Friday, and it was Friday, and he was on time. He stopped a few steps behind you. He did not say your name because it was not going to be yours.
He stopped a few steps behind you. He did not say your name because it was not going to be yours.
You turned around. He looked at you the way people look at strangers who are almost familiar. He did not step back.
"You waiting for the eleven forty-seven?" he said.
"Yeah."
"It's running late tonight. Fifteen minutes at least."
You did not answer with your mouth. You looked over his shoulder at the empty platform. The man who had been mopping had gone through the door at the far end. The vending machine hummed to nobody. The row of shops behind the pillars was already closed.
"The unisex bathroom is unlocked," you said.
He did not need it explained twice.
The bathroom had one stall and a single sink and a light on a timer that clicked when you locked the door. Fluorescent. Loud. It caught the two of you in the mirror above the sink and you looked and he looked and neither of you moved for a second. Then he stepped up behind you and put his palms flat on the counter on either side of yours.
He did not kiss you first. He tugged the ribbon out of your hair with his teeth and the ponytail fell against your shoulder. Then he kissed the side of your neck under the fallen strand. The mirror showed you what his hands were doing before you felt it — one at the front of the denim jacket, one lifting the pleats of the skirt from behind.
He got the jacket off your shoulders and it hung by the sleeves at your elbows. He got the skirt up to your waist. There was nothing under it. He noticed and did not comment. He undid his belt and the buckle hit the tile with more sound than either of you wanted.
He bent his knees. He pushed you forward against the counter with a hand between your shoulder blades. The sink was cold under your forearms. He guided himself with one hand at your hip and pushed into you standing behind you and you took a breath in through your teeth.
He held there. Then he started to move. Slow first. The counter creaked in one spot every time the pace hit it. You watched his face in the mirror over your own reflection. You did not recognize her either. He met your eyes there and did not look away.
He got faster. He wound your ponytail once around his fist and pulled just enough to lift your chin. The angle inside you changed. You bit into your own forearm on the counter to stay quiet. He shifted his stance and hooked his other hand under your hip and lifted you slightly off the floor, and the change made you close your eyes and lose the mirror.
He said something low into the back of your head. You did not catch it. He kept going. Your legs began to shake around him. You came with the flat of your palm against the mirror, and the mirror fogged where you touched it. He kept moving through it. His pace broke a minute later. He pulled out and finished on the small of your back and against the pleats of the skirt where they had bunched up.
He held there for a long second, breathing against your shoulder. Then he stepped back. He tore off enough paper from the wall dispenser to clean you and did it without asking. He handed you the rest of the roll to finish the skirt. You did what you could.
The train's horn came from far away outside the bathroom. Twice. You buttoned the jacket. He tied the ribbon back into your hair with fingers that were not sure of the knot. You watched him try it in the mirror.
You unlocked the door and stepped out onto the platform together. The 11:47 was pulling in. The headlights lit the puddle on the wet floor at the far end where the man had been mopping, and the light of it slid along the tile toward you as the train slowed.