Sabina is a cynical, homeless young trans woman who prioritizes hormones even over such necessities as food and shelter. Deborah is an anxious workaholic with social issues and an apparent softer side, a responsible up-and-coming professional who has just had surgery. A serendipitous encounter on the subway system brings these two women briefly into each other's orbit, where they leave powerful impressions on each other and reveal vulnerable aspects of themselves through their differences, without fully realizing all that they have in common.

Author's Note: While originally intended as a stand-alone solo, I came to care a lot about these characters while writing their backgrounds, so this story may potentially serve as a prequel for something set far in the future. I'm not really sure yet. Please let me know what you think in the comments! Also, despite the decidedly realistic flavor, it isn't set in any particular city in reality. As far as time period, it's set approximately around the mid-to-late-00s or so, or possibly even a bit earlier, which may shed light on a few things (such as why Sabina lacks a smartphone). :) If it does end up being a prequel, any subsequent stories will take place at least five to ten years from this one (so...closer to present day). I might just do a loosely-connected series of vignettes with these characters set before and/or after this. We'll see. Thanks for reading.

~o~O~o~

Deborah adjusted her scarf and coughed anxiously into her shoulder as she always did when the inbound train approached hers, just pulling out of the first station. God, she thought. They pass so close. It looks like I could reach into that one. It looked to her as if there were mere centimeters between the trains as they rushed by, as if they could clip each other at any moment, and while the system was designed so that that never happened, it was her least favorite part of the commute. The little jolt of nervousness passed and she looked back up from the floor, readjusted her hold on the overhead railing, glanced at her watch out of habit and resumed staring vacantly out the window.

Another day in the city. Deborah usually thought about work when she wasn’t at work, but today her idle mind skipped right past it and drifted to the late evening when she’d finally have to go home. Home to an empty, tiny, nondescript apartment on the fourth floor of its building. At first she’d felt privileged to find one affordable on her own without taking on at least one roommate. Now, three years in, she almost wondered if that had been such a blessing after all. Then she remembered, and smiled—almost wincing—to herself. Another day, another dilation, she thought, at a loss for what to do during the next session. The procedure necessary so soon after her surgery was physically uncomfortable, yes, but what made Deborah squirm just to think about it was the frustration it entailed, confining her to bed and forcing her to slow down for a guaranteed block of time every night.

Distractions proved inadequate—reading required too much focus to effectively take her mind off of the pain, attending to work emails was too important to risk making errors and just felt wrong in that position regardless, and TV was too banal to be sufficiently engaging. The loneliness of the whole apartment seemed to echo off the walls whenever she had to dilate, and that’s what Deborah hated the most about it. Having to be alone with her thoughts. Normally she filled the hours in between extra-long workdays by attending to work-related matters, volunteering somewhere, bustling around keeping the apartment immaculately clean, knitting doll clothes—the one quaint hobby she had—and whenever possible, sleep. Damn dilation. She remembered that one nurse’s disquieting offhand remark in response to her question—"...well if that’s the case, why do you even need to beyond that week?" Taken off guard, she hadn’t known how to answer that and couldn’t even recall her response. She just knew that she needed to, and stuck with it, with characteristic diligence.

~o~O~o~

Sabina drifted in and out of the hypnogogic state she had come to begrudgingly recognize now as ‘sleep’. Being unable to fully, deeply sleep for consecutive hours was the one aspect of this life she hadn’t even begun to get acclimated to. But some level of constant vigilance was always required, and what are you going to do? She could tell by the coffee smells and influx of passengers that it was the early morning rush hour. Her eyes briefly fluttered open to see if there were any visibly disabled, pregnant or elderly passengers who needed to sit down on one of the four seats she was stretched across. Nope. Fine, then they can stand, they always have somewhere to go and sit all day, she thought bitterly, clutching tighter to her backpack. And sleep all night.

Today she needed to regroup and figure out another option, something that she wanted (unwisely, she knew) to put off as long as possible. Morning? What do such distinctions even mean anymore? No, it’s still night, it has to be, I’ll decide when it’s morning. Eventually, though, she’d have to cobble something together, and it would be off to a new adventure, yet another step around the circle in this constant scramble to secure such luxuries as shelter.

Until recently, she had been squatting at a abandoned warehouse repurposed by transient punky anarchist-type kids, and while not great, that had been all fine and well until the Asshole Crew—a group of sinister young guys and a couple young women she guessed to be girlfriends, all with aggressive, vaguely neo-Nazi vibes—moved in. So much for that. It was good while it lasted, but nothing lasted forever, so oh well. While some days she still felt hopelessly out of her element on the streets, her intuition had developed enough out of necessity to recognize when it was definitely time to pack up and move on to the next thing. Even if that meant having to infiltrate another supply closet or set up in a stairwell for a few nights. It wasn’t worth the risk to overstay in one place when imminent danger was palpable.

The presence of rush-hour commuters reminded her it was Monday. Other than try to find or panhandle enough change for some coffee, get (possibly dumpster, if there was anything semi-decent enough at the usual spots to look safe) something to eat, and begin to work on figuring out other living arrangements, that was her other definite obligation—she had to do a shot today. For Sabina, that meant something very different, but no less vital, than it did for most homeless kids in the city to whom it applied.

~o~O~o~

Another stop and when enough people disboarded, Deborah caught sight of the silhouette in the back of the train out of the corner of her eye. Taking up four seats? At rush hour? Ugh, the nerve. Some people. But when she turned to look, head-on before the new stream of passengers getting on partially obscured her view, her glare softened. It was a girl—or younger woman, rather, but to Deborah she didn’t look much older than around 17 or 18 years old, by herself, lying on her back with her knees up, her arms wrapped around a bulging, tattered backpack far too enormously heavy for her slight, slender frame.

Fairly myopic even with her contacts in (it was past time to get another eye exam, but she’d put it off with all the commotion of preparing for and recuperating from surgery and just spaced it afterwards), she couldn’t make out too much detail from across the car, but the gargantuan backpack and the fact that the girl appeared to be brazenly sleeping on the train this early in the day told Deborah that she was probably homeless. Though she knew she was making assumptions, her sympathy immediately went out to this young woman, who for whatever reason struck her as looking particularly vulnerable and displaced. Not hardened yet by the unrelenting, punishing life that no doubt awaited those who couldn’t make it in this metropolitan labyrinth. Ah, poor thing. By herself. That must be hard.

Deborah’s BlackBerry buzzed, interrupting her train of thought, and she removed it from her purse to be met with an email from her boss—confirming receipt of and thanking her for some reports she’d sent early the night before, probably having just arrived at the office—and…an invitation for another excuse. She sighed, having thought she’d never have to send another one of those after the last time. When she’d started the job, two of the other women roughly her age in the office who seemed to be thick as thieves had glommed onto her almost instantly and tried to befriend her, inviting her out for lunch (which Deborah always preferred to eat at her desk—no need to lose productivity) and drinks after work. She’d gone with them a few times, just enough to realize that all they ever really talked about was men—guys they either had dated, were dating, or, after enough alcohol, guys they simply wanted to sleep with. No thanks.

It was to the point where it was painful—more painful than dilating right after surgery had been—and nearly impossible to get through those first couple outings without either outright lying or explaining that she was lesbian, had never been involved with men and never wanted to be. But that aside, it chafed her sensibilities to have coworkers get so personal period, and even overlooking that, their personalities were just…ehhh. Not her type of friends, not that she even had a ‘type of friend’ to begin with since childhood, but this pair certainly weren’t it. Vapid, almost, she’d have to say if she were being particularly unkind. Generically urbane, the consummate ditzy yuppies with nothing even moderately unique or interesting about them at all.

So she’d brushed them off, just coldly enough to—she hoped—send the message without making enemies. She had felt unduly guilty about it on some level, even though she knew that that was silly. It occurred to her that many women in her position would dream of being so included off the bat and would probably relish such conversations as somehow very validating. It was challenging to make new friends as an adult, for anybody. Still. She avoided them as much as possible until they cornered her one day and, terrible at saying no to things, she ended up awkwardly going bowling with them or some such—though it had only been a few months ago, she could barely remember, wanting to forget—which she thought would finally get them off her back but had apparently, by the looks of her second text alert, sealed their persistence and been a great mistake. For a while there she had begun to get paranoid, wondering if they sensed anything that could reveal all that she kept hidden. That apprehension had been reignited again with this fresh invitation, since she imagined that they had wondered where she was during her time off for surgery. She was in good enough standing to be able to tell her boss nothing more than “I’m having some necessary surgery,” and get a couple weeks of leave (one paid, one unpaid), not even having to use all her vacation time, and maybe just maybe the busybody twins had pumped him for information. If that was the case, then they were probably trying to find out what kind of surgery she had. For no other reason than to pry.

A loner by nature if not inclination, Deborah didn’t take kindly to being intruded upon like this. Besides, she had much better things to do than hang out with airheads who couldn’t even pass the Bechdel test in real life. Like focus on building her career, and contributing to society whenever possible. Onward and upward. For a flickering instant, she wondered if she was becoming heartless or ruthless, not wanting to lose her humanity or become a stereotype of a white-collar overachiever. Her thoughts returned suddenly to the girl at the end of the car. I bet she doesn’t have such petty concerns. Isn’t forced to make small-talk with anyone she doesn’t care to know.

More attuned to the plight of the marginalized, she often found herself disgusted with her fellow commuters in the way they callously treated the homeless and mentally ill on the subways and how they simply ignored them outright, as if they didn’t even exist as anything but part of the interior. And then, even though it was a little tiring to have to stand for the entire duration of her route, which went almost to the very end of the line, Let her sleep on four seats now then. Sleeping on the trains, I wonder if she ever anywhere else to sleep, like tonight. It’s supposed to get pretty cold.

~o~O~o~

Shit. Now definitely, unambiguously awake—though pretending to still be asleep so no one would hassle her about taking up all this space—Sabina remembered something else that threatened to make this day even more logistically complicated. Last week, she’d made a mental note that she was running very low on injectable estradiol. She’d have to check whether there was enough for this week’s shot. If not, then shit. It was one thing she absolutely had to spend money on, fortunate to have finally secured a legit prescription from a sliding-scale walk-in clinic some time back, and whenever she had it—from panhandling, receipt-return scams, selling unusually good dumpster finds or any other incidental sources—it was often a choice between hormones (and related supplies) or food, and whenever that happened, she always chose the former.

It was a decision even some of her fellow outcasted trans kids didn’t understand, and did pose some major inconveniences, even though the bathrooms at the library were usually spacious and low-trafficked enough that she could safely set up her injections. Before the warehouse, she’d been staying at this little youth hostel work-if-you-can’t-pay-your-way type deal, which was a small step above and her best setup so far. But then the lady who ran it had found one of her used syringes, which she had to carry with her until she could dispose of them safely at the clinic or a needle exchange. There was a strict drug-free policy, and while she almost protested that they were designed for IM injection, not the kind that was even for that, she realized that there was no way the proprietor would’ve possibly believed her. In any case, even if she did, it would’ve been a humiliating conversation and she probably would’ve been kicked out regardless, so she left without argument.

It was still a priority, though, no matter what, and if anyone didn’t understand that, to hell with them. Being long-term homeless was bad enough—she at least had to weather this as herself, in the correct body, maintain that bare fundamental shred of dignity. Plus, her ability to eke out this meager existence on the seamy underside of a first-world capitalist dystopia was largely dependent on being alternately invisible and perceived a relatively normal, pretty young woman, who people were more likely to want to help and build little connections with than…the alternative, what she would've undoubtedly started to look like by now without the hormones. Her ability to get a job, whenever it eventually came to that and was possible, would be dependent on the same thing. So hormones took precedence. Period, the end.

Sabina hadn’t had surgery and never intended to, although it certainly would’ve made her life a hell of a lot easier when it came to things like access to shelters, public showering facilities (which were very tricky to navigate as it was) and being classified correctly in jail or the psych ward should the worst happen. Not even if I lived in a penthouse, as she had confided in a streetwalker of indeterminate age she’d run into late one starry night and struck up a conversation with, who had mentioned wanting to earn enough through prostitution to save up for it, struggling in part (from what Sabina could garner through the woman’s textured accent, rapid-fire slang and tendency to mumble half to herself every other sentence) because of the very last lingering boundaries she had left. It was pretty clear from that interaction that nobody would understand this either.

For her part, the hooker was stymied, her response unusually crystal clear and peppered with little euphemisms and amusingly colorful business expressions that struck Sabina as really odd for someone in that profession and at that point in life to have. “Oh really? You could make a ton of money in the industry then! Hell, hop the next bus to Cali, be an ‘actress’. That’s just what they want. My earning potential is limited! You’re pretty as fuck, I didn’t even guess you were one until just now. And you wouldn’t even have to be high…shit, you could make bank, girl! Save at least 20 grand…”

Sabina remembered being slightly angered by this, more at the words themselves than the speaker, though of course she'd never expressed as much. Actually, she had thought icily, it would probably be easier for someone like you. At least then it wouldn’t really be your body up for grabs, then, would it? You could just dissociate and go to your happy place and think of it as not really yours… What she had actually said, in a wistful, far-away sigh before gracefully walking away across the street into the park, was something like, “It must be nice to have something to aspire to, a single goal like that, even if you’re stuck here forever. Good luck. Have a good one.”

Due to many of these factors, this…situation (that’s how she had to think of it, simply The Situation) had been especially rough on Sabina. The limitation that came from her absolute refusal to enter the sex industry in any capacity was further entrenched by her deep reluctance to try and make money through the other potentially-profitable side of the underground economy, dealing drugs. She’d met a few others here and there over the last couple years who’d taken that option instead, which she didn’t understand in the least, even though it superficially appeared to command more respect in this brutal underworld than sex work. You get arrested, then what? Be in jail with violent men? Fuck that.

The omnipresent fear—nothing less than sheer terror, really—she had of being picked up by the cops made it difficult and intensely stressful just to do things like shoplift and pull minor scams, which she tried to keep to a minimum as it was. And even if it all went wrong eventually, that would be entirely on her, not some random user/customer who could snitch and put your whole life in jeopardy. Just being homeless in this city was criminalized to some extent and therefore a risk in itself that way should one happen to be discovered by the wrong people in the wrong moment. Vagrancy, trespassing, disorderly conduct…Selling drugs seemed like a guaranteed path to a hell she didn’t even want to imagine, like practically begging to be busted.

So she had to be creative to survive, but she learned and adapted and made do, if just barely. It was amazing to her sometimes what was possible in this society of extravagant abundance, and how much was wasted. She remembered how proud she had been of herself when she first learned about two-day-old bagels, still edible and yet discarded by the bag by some places, which sometimes served as her sole source of sustenance, along with chatting up café managers and asking for leftover pastries from the display case that would’ve been tossed anyway. Pretending to be raising funds and then food for a school activity with a found clipboard had worked a couple times. Panhandling did here and there, especially if she complimented people and put on a sad puppy-dog face (and even more especially with male passersby), and while not her favorite activity, dumpster diving wasn’t nearly as disgusting as it first sounded, and sometimes even yielded things like fresh produce that were still safe to directly consume. Soup kitchens run by religious charities (So what? I’ll tell them I believe in their savior or guru, no problem. Someone or something has to be looking out for me, and nobody has to know...) were almost always available.

Supply and maintenance equipment rooms and janitor’s closets in large apartment and office buildings could be a nifty little place to get some rest and shelter away from the elements and predators on the street, and in her experience almost no one ever paid enough attention to spot or challenge her. And then there were the subways, which could be very dubious at night, but a little better than trying to sleep outside, and she carried a knife in case. It was all about fluid intelligence, seeing what others didn’t and evasion, and sometimes it did even feel kind of fun and thrilling, like a game, if she could only forget for a short while that her life literally depended on success.

Scummier endeavors like outright scamming, shoplifting and such were mostly necessary to raise cash for hormones and the laundromat in addition to miscellaneous necessary supplies such as outerwear, her sleeping bag (sometimes, one had no choice but to brave the concrete jungle and ‘sleep rough’), knife, OTC medicines, compass, maps and books. Panties and socks were sometimes provided by generous needle exchanges and mission-type deals. She had once serendipitously found a pair of glasses an older woman had left behind at a Starbucks, and after curiously trying them on for the hell of it found that they made things much clearer and didn’t give her too much of a headache, so she kept them on and took off. She did feel rather guilty about that in retrospect, but what was done was done. Sabina didn’t enjoy having to straight-up steal anything or feed off the gullible, and it unsettled her beyond just the fear of getting caught. Perhaps that was something else she’d never quite get used to. A necessary evil.

And speaking of other trans and sexual minority kids in the same boat, who she had initially sought-out and tried to connect with, she was becoming highly disillusioned with how disturbingly sociopathic so many of them came across. Disappointing. Oh well. She wondered if everything about this life eventually created that in people. One justification here and there, and before you know it you’re up to your knees in dirty snow from the slippery slope of manipulation, headed down the trail towards being the exploiter. Forced to vie for the basic necessities induced an animalistic mindset that frightened Sabina, as much as she slowly adjusted to it. Something she had learned quickly and harshly from her time on the street was that, when it really came down to it, most human beings acted very much like predators and prey, and the whole façade of this lustrous thriving society was constructed around providing the luxury of feeling exempt from that grand sadomasochistic waltz at the bowels of everything. Everyone was sometimes one and sometimes the other, but the discomfiting difference was that those who were left out in the cold, as she was, did not have the privilege of being willfully blind to when they were playing either role.

As unfortunate as it seemed to have to frame it in these terms, Sabina gradually came to realize that trying to build connections with other crossed-out castaways on the fringe facing comparable hurdles didn’t help much anyway, since they usually had the same or even less than she did, no cachet of any kind whatsoever that could be piggybacked off of, and having clawed their way up to get theirs through a similar mishmash of hustles and schemes, they typically weren’t terribly eager to share.

Like any girl her age, she pined for and wondered what it would be like to have friendships, real friendships, ones not subject to the inherent ephemerality and instability of street life or the tainted by the thick, inescapable sludge of ulterior motives. Sometimes after days of little to no real sleep she would involuntarily plunge into slumber for a while and dream about what that might be like. She even envied some of the junkies for what they had with their “running partners”, though not the monkey on their backs which would always come before not only that but individual survival and comfort. Like most people her age in general, she had a strong sense of sexuality, and, while she hated to admit it, those kinds of desires were definitely part of her psyche as well. The distant possibility of actualizing them someday in a loving, brighter context was a major part of why she refused to commoditize her body and that aspect of herself, like...a old blanket she was still clenching in her hands, but from the future, not the past.

She’d long ago accepted, however, that The Situation was such that it basically precluded all truly authentic relationships—a sad byproduct of the nature of the game—and certainly would’ve rendered anything in more intimate realms nigh impossible, if indeed such things could ever be possible for her in any life whatsoever. As a result, she repressed it all down so far at first that she wasn’t even consciously sure who and what she was attracted to exactly, let alone what she would’ve wanted to do with them, though this too flooded forth vividly in dreams and the familiar semi-psychotic hallucination stage of prolonged sleep deprivation to reveal itself clearly enough. Like everything, Sabina was aware enough to know that it wasn’t ideal, maybe even the least ideal set of circumstances, maybe even totally unheard of in some ways, but also like almost everything else, it was what it was and there was no helping that at the end of the day. The Situation was never supposed to go on this long—every single day she held her breath for a break and wondered how much longer it would continue—but it offered precious little opportunity for rumination, denial and existential angst if you didn’t want to sink even lower.

~o~O~o~

As more commuters ebbed off a few stations further down the line and the car gradually emptied out, Sabina finally opened her eyes—she was totally awake for the day, and plenty of other seats were now open, so why not—and spotted the woman standing a few yards down, clinging to the railing for dear life even though her footing appeared to be perfectly stable. The very first thing her tired, bloodshot eyes honed in on was the briefcase she carried.

A worn, light brown leather rectangle almost sunbleached and fraying in places, it looked kind of clunky and antiquated among the sleek messenger bags and aerodynamic stainless steel cases that could’ve been designed for diplomats to carry nuclear secrets in on the movie set of a futuristic war. But somehow also weirdly warm, a comfy old oak tree growing in midst of metal and cement, just bizarrely out of place. Almost like something a slapdash grandfather would carry. Smartly dressed, in a starchy button-up blouse tucked into a knee-length A-line skirt, with an undersized blazer, gauzy scarf, sheer stockings or hose of some kind and short heels, its carrier was definitely a suit, she had to be, a businesswoman. Or maybe a lawyer? Something like that. But quite unlike all of the other suits that flowed in and out of the subway system in what had become to Sabina’s modified perception one monolithic current, a single streak of blue and black and white and gray, this woman stood out in the train, she stood out strikingly. ...and it wasn’t just the briefcase itself, no; this woman’s overall appearance, she rapidly realized, was a strange league apart from that of the other corporate-drone commuters.

She looked to be in her early thirties, maybe, and possibly even younger than that. Wow. Must’ve been quite a go-getter. Most of the suit-types who were women got on the train looking severe and dressed for battle—hair pulled back in a tight ponytail or bun or otherwise unnaturally styled so that it looked like a single piece of their outfits in itself, wearing cool monochrome pantsuits or pencil skirts so tight they almost seemed twisted up into buckled wire-frame figures peculiarly comical, like poorly-camouflaged agents of an alien species. This one wasn’t… like that at all. She actually gave off the dusty tan aura Sabina could recognize as humanity. How so? Her hair, shoulder-length, coffee-colored and tied back only loosely, was nice but not nearly as…manicured? Several strands fell here and there haphazardly around her scarf. Her ensemble was definitely professional, formal office-wear, but appeared neither chic nor as tight and streamlined as a new snakeskin, which had the effect of giving her figure a much fuller, softer, more natural and feminine appearance, at least from this angle.

Apart from that, her clothing style was distinctly different in still other ways. Taken in its entirety, it could only be described as quirkily soft-femme, the colors more pastel, the patterns special and endearing on closer examination. Pinprick polka dots on the skirt, and from what Sabina could make out through her smudged glasses, her blouse seemed to have a repeating print with something like a few distinct little animal figures—giraffes? penguins? cats?—over the cream-colored background. Almost something you’d see on pajamas (which a handful of riders didn’t seem to have many qualms about wearing in public). But definitely professional, prominent collar and all. Interesting. The color scheme of the whole thing, not that Sabina would really know firsthand, didn’t clash, per se, but it wasn’t a combo you’d think of as deliberately matched. Yet it worked, somehow, she pulled it off. Very interesting.

It wasn’t too unusual to see a woman like this carrying a briefcase, but something seemed really off about the image of this one in her hand, multiple components contributing to the contrast: her youth, femmey style, its rustic, old-school, dilapidated exterior, and the fact that she also had a full-sized purse strapped across the opposite side of her body. It was subtle and yet, if you looked closely enough, glaring. Maybe I’m the only one who noticed? Though she’d never given it much thought until now, it was uncommon to see women with both at the same time. When it wasn’t all in one androgynous black blob-bag, the female suits transported their stuff in one or the other, and if they had something vaguely resembling a briefcase—which was still less common in itself, for the women—they might have a tiny clutch or something that looked like it would barely hold a hair clip and a pack of cigarettes, if that, at most. Sabina squinted when the woman turned slightly to the side and noticed a stuffed animal poking up out of her purse, it looked like…the ears of a pink bunny rabbit? Huh. Must have children.

A few more stops, and the car was now more sparsely populated. How far does this woman have to go? Sabina readjusted to prevent her backpack from sliding off of her lap and, feeling almost safeguarded by it, continued to take in this strangely gorgeous passenger who had been on since…it departed again from the first station? Not a bad first sight to wake up to. She’d opened her eyes to so much worse on the subway. She was…cute (for a suit?). Yes, that was it, that described her perfectly—polka dots, animal blouse, pretty, soft colors, stuffed bunny, tattered old briefcase and all—in one word. Really cute. More than that even, she was hot. Oh, don’t go there, but I went there, oh well, it is what it is…

Sabina couldn’t believe she was allowing herself to even think this way. Her whole body flushed from her face down, with a similarly intense but much more pleasurable heat which could foreshadow some of the hot flashes she remembered she’d be feeling later in the week if she couldn’t scrabble up enough money to fill her E today or tomorrow, and she shifted uncomfortably on her bumpy plastic bed, which all of a sudden felt rigid and unyielding. Ow. My whole side’s almost asleep. Her gaze held fast to the object of her admiration, fixed with a nearly juvenile wonder, spacing out for a second…and then something petrifying happened: the woman suddenly turned and looked right at her.

~o~O~o~

Sigh, so, what to tell the meddlesome duo today? Her palms starting to sweat, Deborah felt slightly depleted before the workday up at the surface had even commenced. Uh-oh, this was not a good sign. She didn’t want to have to take her lunch outside again, practicing deep breathing exercises in just enough fresh air to not feel like she was going to vomit or faint, while the skyscrapers turned into a kaleidoscope. She’d been meaning to see a doctor about that again. But Klonopin wasn’t a solution. Deborah preferred solutions. She failed to mention last time that she used to eat her lunch in high school by herself down in the secret maintenance tunnels under the building, subterranean corridors that reminded her of the subways.

Her BlackBerry buzzed thrice more in rapid succession, and since her head was starting to spin and ache a little she had to stop herself from immediately checking it. She steadied herself on the railing. That’s better. Can’t have any of that today. She did look forward to seeing her boss. A whip-smart, kindly man in this mid-60s, he was demanding but almost fatherly, and seeking his approval made it easier to lose herself in work. She’d have to thank him again for being so understanding about the surgery. He’d gently but firmly insisted she really take the time off when she tried to start working remotely from bed.

With each stop she’d checked out of the corner of her eye to see if the sleeping girl was still there. Deborah wondered if all she did was ride the trains back and forth all day. She must have somewhere to be. Something about her still seemed as vulnerable and precarious as a glass egg, though Deborah couldn’t tell what it was or why. Just another homeless kid, and it was terribly unfortunate what happened to them, yes, but most usually transmogrified eventually into hardboiled creatures of some sort who could at least bounce around the city.

Maybe it was the way she was lying there, deflated, or holding that gigantic backpack like a belly pregnant with her child, or something else, but for whatever reason Deborah could sense something inside this girl that indicated she hadn’t. Something was familiar and yet different about her. Maybe she’s new to this? But she does kinda look like a veteran at the same time. God that’s sad. They’re so young now. She kept a constant peripheral eye on her, and with each stop Deborah found herself increasingly, inexplicably drawn to this half-horizontal young woman at the edge of her vision.

Her curiosity intermingled with her magnanimous save-the-world instincts, and as a river of commuters passed through the car doing their best to pretend not to notice the girl, Deborah almost began to imagine trying to start a conversation with her. She tried to humor the raving transient types—usually harmless schizophrenics—whenever they started babbling to her out of the blue, to make them feel a little less transparent and insignificant in some small way. But initiating a chat with someone like that was unheard of. Seemed kinda dangerous, even. As sympathetic as she was, most were fairly unpredictable and you could never tell when something might set them off. The stoic security guards standing sporadically around the platforms of certain stations were there for a reason.

Then at some point the girl had her eyes open, and was shifting around in a way where Deborah could tell she was awake. She looked a little disoriented. Hmm…maybe. The car was empty enough now that she could probably walk over there without too much trouble or looking too gawky, and strangely enough, talking could sometimes help keep her mind off of how she was starting to feel. There were at least three stops left to go, but the distance between them was the longest of any stations on the line.

This was an odd impulse, to say the least, and Deborah didn’t have the slightest clue where it was coming from, but part of her wanted to throw caution to the wind and approach the girl. Maybe it would help her get out of her comfort zone and work up enough courage to approach the vapid vixens today. Why not? The worst that would probably happen would be that she’d have to hear all about how the FBI was in cahoots with the aliens to take over the White House or some such gibberish for the rest of the ride, or about how so-and-so left yesterday with all her money... She smiled tersely to herself, inhaled deeply and turned to see if the young woman at the back of the train was still there. She was, and for a few fleeting seconds that felt like forever they made direct eye contact. Wow. Her eyes are so…intense. Well, there’s no backing out now.

~o~O~o~

Shit. She saw you, she saw you looking. What now? Sabina’s heart started racing more than it even had when she realized she had to leave the warehouse. Frozen in surprise, she held the woman’s gaze. Why are you still staring at her? Fuck. Was I that obvious? Okay, don’t panic, don’t panic. Having lost track of the backpack balanced on her body, Sabina shifted and it fell to the floor with a loud clunk. Damnit! At that, the woman began to walk purposefully, directly towards her. Well, now it’s time to panic. Just close your eyes again. Pretend you’re still asleep or nodding out and maybe she’ll go away. Okay. Breathe. Other homeless riders who…weren’t very sane trying to make small-talk with her were a frequent annoyance, and sometimes men commuting to or from work dispensed hair-raising ‘compliments’ and made intimidating advances to her when they thought nobody was looking and she had to pretend to be crazy herself to get rid of them, but a female suit had never once approached her. This one probably intended to tell her off about taking up the whole back row or putting her feet on the seats, or even worse, for ogling her. Calm down. Maybe she just wants to see if she can bum a cigarette or something. Yeah. That’s all, that’s all she wants. It’s alright. Breathe.

~o~O~o~

As she made her way across the car, as if propelled by an invisible fan somewhere, the girl came into focus much more clearly and Deborah observed that the phrase "young woman" could definitely describe her. She still looked youthful, and vulnerable, but more mature and…solid? than she had from farther away. Still. Upon reaching the seats at the back, Deborah noticed that she’d closed her eyes again and was covering her forehead with her forearm as if trying to go back to sleep, her other hand holding the strap of the backpack on the floor. Had she imagined the glance? Just a few seconds ago she’d been wide awake and squirming around agitatedly. Well, this is awkward. Instead of sitting down on one of the seats perpendicular to where she was lying as originally intended, Deborah planted herself in the space next to the girl and grabbed the railing again. Oh, well, that was a dumb idea anyway.

But then Deborah allowed herself to gaze over the still-intriguing form spread out next to her. Dressed all in black, her super-faded jeans were in an attractive, fitted style but not skinny-tight like a lot of the teenagers wore, accentuating wide hips, what her aunt used to call “childbearing hips”. They had ragged tears in several places that didn’t look like they were done on purpose, and the thick denim had been worn into cottony softness. Definitely seen better days. She was wearing some kind of heavy combat boots, it looked like, thickly caked with dried mud. Extremely pale, milky-white skin for someone who probably had to spend most of her time outdoors, which gave her an almost translucent, ghostly visage. Her long jet-black hair wasn’t thickly matted with grime or anything and looked relatively clean, but it was frizzed out with lots of split ends, disheveled. She was wearing glasses with thick black frames, in an obsolete yet cute style that nonetheless wasn’t at all flattering to her face. They made her look like a stereotypical intellectual, a student. Where did homeless people even get glasses? Deborah made a mental note to herself to look that up sometime.

She smelled fine—at least from where she was standing Deborah couldn’t smell her, which was good, but her entire body was covered lightly head-to-toe with a fine, chalky white substance, like a powdery dust. It made her look kind of ethereal, like a visitor from another realm. She was beautiful. Huh. Her overall appearance did seem somewhat thin and waifish and malnourished, but she still had curves. Her sizable breasts made a prominent outline in the black turtleneck she was wearing, and from the way her nipples poked through the fabric, it was obvious that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Deborah didn’t know if this made her feel sorry for her, or…kind of turned on? Umf. Not ‘kind of’. Woah! Hold up there. Is this common after surgery? You don’t even know how old she is, she looks like she could still be in high school, you creep. Her mouth felt dry and like it was full of sand, her face was hot, and her head started pounding. She caught herself, cleared her throat and looked away in embarrassment.

The girl opened her eyes, and Deborah caught her glance once again. She didn’t know why she wanted to speak with this girl so much, but something strongly compelled her to. Now or never.

~o~O~o~

“Hi.”

“Um, hello.” The girl’s voice was so quiet and nasally—kind of scratchy and uncertain, as if she wasn’t used to using it or hadn’t in days—unlike anything Deborah had ever heard. She shifted and sat up, and it looked like she had bedhead after a long nap. The effect was strangely adorable to Deborah.

“Meah? Yeah, alright, mnm…” She shifted and mumbled faintly, rubbing her eyes, and yawned. She somehow managed to look way out of place, but in her element at the same time. It defied description. Something in her eyes gave the impression of being very scared.

“I’m Deborah.”

“Sabina. Deborah, not Debbie?”

Deborah giggled. “My boss calls me Deb. And Sabina, not Sia?”

“Never heard of Sia, but touché.”

“Are you okay? I noticed you back here since I got on. Do you usually sleep on the trains? You seemed kind of out of it. I wanted to make sure you were alright.” Partially true, and a good excuse. What else can I say?

The girl kind of half-smirked and sighed to herself, though whether out of exhaustion, irritation or something else Deborah couldn’t tell. “Sometimes, sometimes. I’m ‘between homes’ if that’s what you mean. So can I ask if you can spare some change?” Looking pointedly at the briefcase, she added “or some cash?” She seemed a lot more confident in that question, and Deborah couldn’t discern if she was being sarcastic or not. Now more grounded and louder, her voice was high and definitely had this distinct, nasal quality. It was unique. In a good way.

Deborah laughed out loud in spite of herself. “No. But I can lend an ear if you’d like. There’s a ways to go still before I get off. So what’s on the agenda for you today? I’m just headed to work.” She doesn’t look strung-out or like an addict of any kind, but one can never know. Realistically, most are. They’re still human, Deborah thought hesitantly, but you can’t feed it. That wouldn’t be kind either.

“I have to get some medicine today.” Her eyes became glassy and damp, and she gazed off into the distance as if past everything.

“Ah. Well, that’s honest of you. I won’t judge, but may I ask…”

“—it isn’t like that. I have a condition.” She swung her legs back up on the seats and reclined uneasily, bringing her backpack up like a shield. “Really.”

“Oh.” Long pause. “Well, good luck with that!” Probably—well, maybe?—a line, but come on, Deb, don’t be mean. Was that mean? “Hopefully you can get your needs met.” What? You weirdo. Maybe just a tad patronizing. Do I sound like that to everyone? God, no wonder it’s hard to make friends then.

The girl kind of snorted at this and mumbled something inaudible, but then returned to looking frightened and cornered. It was a look that whimpered Please don’t hurt me. Deborah’s heartstrings vibrated as they sank. Poor thing. Maybe she really is sick, physically. The girl just shrugged and sat there looking uncomfortable.

“So do you go to school?”

“No. Not anymore.” There was something unusual and refreshing about this girl’s candid, straightforward answers. Deborah could tell that she was long past the point of having to put on airs for anyone. That must be nice.

“So, if you don’t mind me asking, where do you spend the rest of the day then? It must get boring being down here after a while.”

The girl’s lackadaisical half-smile returned, and beyond a thin layer of defensiveness, she had something curiously searching and thoughtful behind those ill-fitting specs. Perhaps in another, more mythical age she would’ve been considered an oracle, or soothsayer. Or a witch.

“Usually the library downtown. They don’t kick you out until after nine on weekdays. And it’s free. Since I never leave with anything, I don’t have to worry about overdue fines.”

Was she kidding? Serious? Both? Deborah chuckled just in case, and the girl smirked and shrugged. Does she think I’m laughing at her? “Hm, I suppose not.” Pause. “So do you like to read?”

“Yeah. And I use the computers.”

Deborah leaned in and grimaced in concern. “So, um, listen, don’t take this the wrong way, but do you have anywhere else to sleep tonight? Or anything warmer than what you’re wearing, a coat? The forecast says it’s supposed to be freezing tonight and security usually sweeps the trains…I mean, I’ve seen them kicking people off whenever I work late.”

The girl frowned, really defensive now. Oops. “I have a couple parkas in here,” she said, pointing to the bulging backpack.

“Parkas? Like the kind at the dollar store?” The girl nodded, looking…little, and scared again. “Oh, honey, those aren’t nearly warm enough.” Yikes. Super-patronizing. “Honey”. What am I, an old lady? But I’m worried for her. I don’t know why, I’m sure she can take care of herself. But I am.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but uh, what do you know about…this? You sound like a social worker. Are you?”

“I’ve volunteered at shelters a few times. I know…some things. I’m still learning. I try to…give back.”

“Oh, I see. That’s nice. Good for you.” There was a slight edge to her tone, but otherwise, this sounded genuine.

“..speaking of which, there are two women’s shelters that I know of you could probably get a bed at. Traveling by yourself must be dangerous. They’re safe places.”

“Not for me. I can’t stay there.” Her eyes got that moist, distant haze again, like she was a million miles away.

“Are you sure? It’s just, like I said, the forecast says…”

“—I can’t stay there.” Brusque, sharp, almost gravelly. Deborah racked her brain for how to respond, but decided not to press the matter. Maybe something bad had happened to her at a shelter.

“There might be something I can give you, help you with.” Deborah blushed and faltered. “Ah…so, hmm, this is totally random, I know, and kinda personal, but…” She leaned in even closer, and lowered her voice. “Do you need any…feminine hygiene products? I know, I know, weird question, but…I was just told that that’s a common concern, something it really helps to have access to…” Deborah thought of the several pads in her purse. She had to wear them for a while after the surgery, and now that the bleeding had stopped, they’d go to waste otherwise.

“No. I don’t; trust me.”

Deborah floundered, feeling suddenly, extremely self-conscious. What did you expect? She had read or heard somewhere that heavy heroin addicts often stopped having periods altogether. Maybe that’s it. But this girl didn’t look nearly that far-gone.

“May I ask you a personal question, now?” Back to being polite, vaguely contrite and uncertain. What happened to this poor girl? She seems all there. Deborah almost wanted to hug her and never let go.

“Sure, go for it.”

“Do you have any kids?”

How do I answer that? Does she think I’m trying to play mother? Damn, I guess I do sound like one right now. This isn’t really how I wanted this to go. Or is it? What did I want? Oh, this is hard. Part of Deborah really wanted to say “I can’t…” but came out reflexively in reply was, “Oh, no, I’m not that old.” Though, at 27, she was acutely aware that there were plenty of people with young kids around her age, maybe a little older. They could never shut up about it at the office. Gah, awkward, awkward. I meant to say…I don’t think we’re that far apart in age, if she was implying that I was acting like a mom, but—ah, never mind. That’s your problem, you always overthink and everything gets tangled. This is just…practice. She glanced at her watch. You’re almost there. You’ll never see her again... But rather than being comforting as it usually was, this thought was strangely sad to Deborah.

Predictably, the girl was giving her a very queer, sideways, quizzical look. Can she…tell? Quick, change the subject.

“Do you ever see your parents?” Why do you think she’s homeless, you idiot. Of course not. But to be fair, she thought, there are fuck-the-system traveler types who are more by choice than anything. She has glasses and is clean—oh, so beautiful, actually—stop it! there you go again—so maybe? You never know.

She sighed sadly, and a shadowy, reflective look came over her once again. “Nah, not at all.”

"If it makes you feel any better, me neither. I—" Deborah almost choked around the sentence that formed in the pit of her stomach and rose to her lips. “I haven’t spoken to my mom in six years.” My god, it’s been that long. Keep it together, Deb. Anxiety, concern, desire (!), now this--why so emotional today?

The car was completely silent. When did everyone get off? Just one more stop to go. The girl looked sympathetic, but lost for words. She tentatively pointed with a bent index finger to Deborah’s purse.

“I just asked because…I noticed the…”

Huh? Oh, she must mean Sarah. I guess it is weird that you carry a stuffed bunny around. Maybe it is time for some meds instead. “Oh, no, she’s just something I bring with me. For my desk,” Deborah added, as if that explained everything.

“Oh. She’s cute. I had…when I was little…” she trailed off.

“You have now reached ___ Station. Please remove all your belongings from the train when disboarding if this is your destination. The next stop is ___, the final stop on the ___ line…”

Already? Her BlackBerry had been going off the entire time, but Deborah hadn’t bothered to check it, engrossed in the conversation. It didn’t seem like a good time to leave, somehow, but—

“This’s my stop. I have to get off here. It’s been wonderful talking to you…” Deborah turned toward the doors.

“You too. …have a good day.” The girl’s eyes were as wide as dinner plates, as if stunned, processing. Deborah hadn’t noticed before, but they were pretty bloodshot.

“Be safe out there tonight, okay? Stay warm,” she yelled from across the car before practically jumping off the train. Her head was whirling differently now, but it wasn’t aching, and she wasn’t nauseous anymore. Feeling better, she briskly straightened her skirt and scrambled for her BlackBerry to check her messages one last time before the short walk to work.

~o~O~o~

Close your eyes. Maybe she won’t be there now. Like a child cheating at hide-and-seek, Sabina allowed her eyes to flutter open just enough to see the woman’s legs, very close to her face. Okay, might as well.

She sat up to the woman peering down at her, curiously, dreamily, concernedly. “Hi.”

“Um, hello.” Sabina felt like she had to clear her throat, her voice contorted by the uncomfortable position she’d been half-sitting, half-lying in. It always took a few moments to find it. The longer she’d been in The Situation, the harder it seemed to be able to find it at all. At this rate, someday, I won’t be able to speak at all, mute. Sabina yawned and felt like she was shedding an exoskeleton. The exhaustion was in part an act, to buffer whatever was coming, but it came from a very real place.

“I’m Deborah.” Three distinct syllables.

She sounded…friendly enough, but Sabina continued to brace herself for the impact of whatever this woman intended to throw at her.

“Sabina. Deborah, not Debbie?” Why did you say that? Sabina cringed inwardly at herself. Where in the hell did that come from? But she supposed it slipped out because of how cute the woman standing above her seemed. She just seemed like a Debbie, suit or not.

“My boss calls me Deb.” The woman’s laugh was nothing short of mellifluous, musical. It matched her. Sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes the most put-together, dignified people would suddenly pick up the phone or get nudged by a friend and burst out sounding like hyenas on crack. It was another bit of information she’d learned people-watching while constantly riding the subway system. A useless one, but hey, it was amusing and broke the tedium and the tension in the air sometimes. Remembering this, Sabina almost cracked a smile. Somehow, it made her feel much more at ease, however this interaction would play out. Back to this mystery woman. Oh my, is her laugh...beautiful. Sabina found herself blushing again. It must be so nice to have a voice like that. The woman sounded so clear, melodious and pleasant.

“Sabina, not Sia?” Sia? She was used to people pronouncing it Sabrina, adding an ‘r’ where there wasn’t one. But…Sia? It seemed like she regretted saying this, too, immediately. Sizing her up with the thorough agility left over from fight-or-flight mode, Sabina got the first inkling that this woman was as socially awkward as she was. It was disarming, and yet…What does she want, then? Why is she here?

Most people who confronted her—never the suits, who were above even acknowledging her existence—didn’t have a problem snapping, “Hey! Get your feet off the seats!” as if to a disobedient dog. Or “Hey! What the fuck you lookin’ at?” if they were trying to pick a fight with her. Which happened a lot more rarely than “Hey beautiful. You happen to know where ____ is? On what block? Oh, you see, I’m new in town. Why don’t we go for a little walk? Some change? Sure, why don’t you walk me over there and we can work somethin’ out…” By now Sabina had a database of these memorized, and could anticipate and start reacting before they were even uttered. But not with this. Sometimes people were sneaky about it and gave her a run-around first, but they always wanted something, invariably. Just roll with it.

“Never heard of Sia, but touché.”

“Are you okay? I noticed you back here since I got on…” Ahh. The concerned onlooker. I see. Occasionally, this happened too. People would see her trying to sleep on the train, curled up in a stairwell, catch her red-handed behind a door marked ‘EMPLOYEES ONLY’ or somewhere else she wasn’t supposed to be, and ask, “Ma’am, are you okay?” It was Sabina's favorite reaction by far, because it gave her the opportunity to seem normal for a few seconds—just diabetic (“I must’ve wandered in here and passed out! Better watch my blood sugar today! I’ll just eat a few cookies and be fine…”) or drunk (“Ugh, what time is it? No, no, I’m fine, I just had a little too much to drink—“) or simply exhausted ("Just got done working a 14-hour shift! Sorry, so sorry…”) and easily slip away. Sometimes she was even able to finagle something out of them beforehand, milking it.

She imagined that such people had to be sheltered, more recent arrivals to the city. Transplants from a more innocent time and place. Like maybe the Midwest. She pictured it being asked in an exaggerated, bad Minnesota accent--“Arrrrre youuuuuu okaeeeeeeeeay?”--and almost giggled again. Beyond its utility, though, she had to admit…it was nice saying those things as if they were true. Letting even herself believe for an instant the fantasy. That she was just temporarily lost, and that The Situation was something that only happened to others.

“Do you usually sleep on the trains?” This question knocked Sabina out of this reverie space that she kept slipping into for some reason. Huh. I must feel safer with this woman than I thought. Usually sleep on…? Oh, she knows. Not that naïve, then. That’s weird. Or—eek—maybe it’s past time for another shower. She subtly tried to smell herself to no avail. I could try to—but last time was a really close call.

“…you seemed kind of out of it. I wanted to make sure you were alright.” Ugh, just say it. Yes, I am, alright! I’m a street urchin. ‘Usually sleep on the trains’, what kind of roundabout bullshit is that? Might as well just sew a scarlet ‘H’ on my chest. Sabina surprised herself with the burst of defensiveness and irritability. She didn’t know where it was coming from. Embarrassment? Hormone fluctuations, needing a shot? Why did she care what this woman thought of her? But…she did. At least none of it was said aloud…right? Hopefully? Settling back down, she softened and felt guilty. For someone like that, for a suit, a surface-dweller, it wasn't like there was a tactful way to ask outright. And she had sounded so kind. It wasn’t malicious at all. Something about being asked if she was okay multiple times in rapid succession touched Sabina. This woman was sincerity personified.

“Sometimes, sometimes. I’m ‘between homes’ if that’s what you mean. So can I ask if you can spare some change?” Sabina immediately felt terrible asking, even tongue-in-cheek, reverting to techniques in the panhandler’s playbook. But hey, she went there in the first place, and these odd little flushes of sensation reminded Sabina that she really, really needed to get her estrogen ASAP. It must’ve been longer since I did my shot than I thought… Since it was well into the morning commute, she’d missed one of her most lucrative times of the day. Still…shit, don’t say that. You’re better than that, you have to be. Just play it off…She looked google-eyed at the briefcase she’d first noticed from afar. “Or some cash?”

That beautiful laugh erupted again, as if the woman was totally taken off guard. Good. You’ve redeemed yourself. And well, maybe she would get something out of it to boot. People were a lot more likely to share if you were entertaining.

“No. But I can lend an ear if you’d like. There’s a ways to go still before I get off. So what’s on the agenda for you today? I’m just headed to work.”

I don’t even know where to begin…Sabina thought. Something about this casual question made her feel…respected. Seen. Nearly normal. Most people just wrongly assumed The Situation entailed laziness and endless free time and were all bitter about that. “Get a job!”, etc. She could almost physically feel her shields sliding down, away. Her eyes welled up all of a sudden.

Sabina had never once cried to her recollection before starting E. Not when her mother spat at her. Not when his fist hit her chest so hard it felt like her heart had stopped. Not after she went sailing across that filthy room like a ragdoll. But then, after her first injection…no, actually, right after she’d taken some sketchy pills another prostitute acquaintance had given her, her eyes would get wet and threaten to dissolve into tears at the drop of a hat. People started giving her pitying looks with the coins. She only allowed herself to sob in exasperation when completely alone, usually in the middle of the night, but ever since starting, it was like she was drifting down a river of tears built up over a lifetime. She just had to keep the dam up as much as possible.

“I…I have to get some medicine today.” Way to sound like a junkie! Now you’ll get it. Now it’s coming for sure…

“Ah. Well, that’s honest of you. I won’t judge, but may I ask…” See? Shit! …wait, 'won’t judge'…?

“—it isn’t like that. I have a condition.” Well, sort of. I guess I’d put it that way. I’ve been called ‘sick’ before, so… Feeling beyond exposed, Sabina grabbed her backpack and put it back on her lap. “Really.”

“Oh.” The woman looked like she didn’t know what to say. You took the wind right out of her sails with that one. But now, maybe she thinks you’re a dishonest junkie instead of an honest one. Is that worse? Is there a difference? “Well, good luck with that! Hopefully you can get your needs met.” Yeah. Needs. Sabina was tiring of her life being all about needs. What about what I want? Nobody cares. It isn’t a matter of ‘getting’ anything met. I meet my own needs... But just then the razor-sharp reality zipped by Sabina’s face, close enough to slice the tip of her nose. Not really, right? I’m at the mercy of…everything…

“So do you go to school?” Do I look that young? I guess I am, but do I look it? People sometimes assumed that she was a college student. Maybe she means college?

“No. Not anymore.” Sabina missed it sometimes—well, almost—no matter how many Fuck school! Fuck indoctrination! Fuck work! Down with the post-industrialist kyriarchy-perpetuating structures! zines she read. But it just wasn’t practical. She loved to learn, and had educated herself enough since that she could probably get a GED at least. From time to time she sat in on university lectures that seemed interesting. She’d never planned on being what people called ‘street smart’ to feel better about themselves, but…it wasn’t even about the knowledge school purportedly imparted. She could get that for free.

“So, if you don’t mind me asking, where do you spend the rest of the day then? It must get boring being down here after a while.”

…but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing anyway. All she had to do when this feeling started surging up and threatened to break the dam was talk to an anti-establishment punk or anarcho- kid—they could usually be found at copy shops and Starbucks aplenty—and be regaled with starry-eyed propaganda about how much romantic adventure life could hold in the gritty margins, if one only rejected the System. They’re just like the suits sometimes, Sabina thought. They think it means perfect freedom. But it isn’t…as she’d been coming to recognize recently. Not really. If only it wasn’t one or the other…

“Usually the library downtown. They don’t kick you out until after nine on weekdays. And it’s free. Since I never leave with anything, I don’t have to worry about overdue fines.”

“Hm, I suppose not. “So do you like to read?” Anything I can get my hands on. Text was not only an escape, it was a window into this strange society Sabina clung to the underbelly of. Her host. She remembered lifting that book of lesbian erotica stories, just out of pure shame, and then being ashamed of herself anyway that she’d taken the risk for something so frivolous. Too sensitive to even think about checking out, too expensive to even think about buying, and that would’ve been mortifying to be caught with.

“Yeah. And I use the computers.”

“So, um, listen, don’t take this the wrong way, but do you have anywhere else to sleep tonight?" No, and I have to get right on that. God, don’t remind me. The hairs on the back of Sabina’s neck almost started to rise again. When people asked ‘do you have anywhere to sleep?’ that usually wasn’t a good sign. But this was obviously different. "Or anything warmer than what you’re wearing, a coat? The forecast says it’s supposed to be freezing tonight and security usually sweeps the trains…I mean, I’ve seen them kicking people off whenever I work late.” She had cheaply thrifted a nice, long, wool trench coat once that scraped the floor and made her feel really elegant. Then she’d tripped over it and landed in oil or something, removed it to try and clean it somehow, and it disappeared. The dam had broken then.

“I have a couple parkas in here.”

“Parkas? Like the kind at the dollar store? Oh, honey, those aren’t nearly warm enough.” Honey. Feeling put on the spot and frustrated to have her nose rubbed in The Situation like she wasn’t fully aware of it herself every waking minute, Sabina was split in two directions. On one hand, she felt talked-down-to—this one was different, a lot nicer and well-meaning, but this was much closer to the attitude she’d expect from a suit. How irksome, and she felt herself getting surprisingly angry, almost feeling…betrayed, somehow? But that doesn’t make any sense.

No, it was probably just that with questions like “Do you like to read?” she could transcend context and almost begin to imagine for a millisecond that she was normal, that she was just conversing with a friend or a classmate or a date, a peer, The Situation someone else’s distant memory. But not being grilled about it like this—that made it impossible to escape even in tiny little gasps for the air that everyone else breathed. On the other hand, however, the way the woman said it was like warm honey, sweet and almost affectionate. Sabina felt compelled to acknowledge her compassion at the same time as she felt like jumping out the window.

Really, though, it wasn’t about any of that. What frustrated Sabina most of all was simply the hopeless reality-check that this was how this woman saw her, throughout the whole interaction, as a scrub, a pathetic vagrant that didn’t even have a coat (or a consistent way to shower) and had to sleep on the trains. That that was how she would always be perceived, all she’d ever be seen as. If I wasn’t, she wouldn’t have even talked to me in the first place, she thought sulkily, stomach acid rising in the back of her throat. For some reason, this bothered her more than anything—more than being patronized and pitied, more than being ignored, more than being reminded of everything and put in her place. She noticed herself scowling and tried to lighten her expression so as not to scare the woman off, but this complex feeling without a name, somewhere between anger, frustration, self-loathing, sadness, neediness and surprise, continued to wrench its way to the surface, her surface. Before she could catch herself, she said, almost sputtering,

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but uh, what do you know about…this? You sound like a social worker. Are you?”

It must not have sounded as vexed and hostile as she’d thought, because for once the woman didn’t miss a beat, though her voice dropped a little as if scolded. “I’ve volunteered at shelters a few times. I know…some things. I’m still learning. I try to…give back.”

“Oh, I see. That’s nice.” It is, really. That explains a lot. She’s sweet. They might be clueless, but the world needs more people like that. But then: “Good for you,” brimming with bile. Sabina! Control yourself! Don’t be sarcastic, or that mean. Since when do suits even care at all? And this woman is so…cute. She must mean it. Fuck, what are you even thinking?

“..speaking of which, there are two women’s shelters that I know of you could probably get a bed at. Traveling by yourself must be dangerous. They’re safe places.” …in any sane society, yes, but—

“Not for me. I can’t stay there.” So much for procrastinating…she kept my mind off of everything more from yards away—what does that say about me? What does that say about her? Just that she wants to help you. She talked to you, she laughed with you, and now she feels guilty. It had happened before. People felt obligated to say or do something once you were a person to them. But this woman had a way of—accidentally, Sabina was sure—pushing all the weakest, darkest buttons in the course of her concern and guilt.

“Are you sure? It’s just, like I said, the forecast says…”

“—I can’t stay there.” No matter how many shots I do. Even though that’s why it’s like this at all. Don’t. Let. It. Break. Breathe. Don’t capsize. Just keep drifting. She gritted her teeth. She almost felt like bearing them, like fangs. Vampires. She had read that once in some ‘feminist’ anti-trans polemic at the library, in the gender studies section. It had been almost funny then. It wasn’t funny now. The woman physically receded and cocked her head to the side in confusion or sympathy.

“There might be something I can give you, help you with.” Oh, here we go. Definitely the guilt. Unless that briefcase is full of estradiol and chips, I doubt it. But might as well hear her out. Sometimes people offered to buy food for her or whatever else. Out of everything food was less of a problem, but she always had to accept or she would look like a junkie. Maybe I am, in a way. I need money. I need to do injections or I’ll start feeling like shit. It’s my only reason for staying alive, for that matter. Huh. Uncanny.

“Ah…so, hmm, this is totally random, I know, and kinda personal, but…Do you need any…feminine hygiene products?”

Ha! That is a new one. Seriously? Sabina couldn’t help but feel weirdly flattered, in a way. That hadn’t even occurred to her. Well, I probably do sound like I’m PMSing today. “No.”

“I know, I know, weird question, but…I was just told that that’s a common concern, something it really helps to have access to…”

“I don’t; trust me.” Oh man, this is awkward. I guess it was inevitable, but since when does anyone offer…? We’re not even in a bathroom. Is this what it all comes down to? Is this why she came over here? Sabina didn’t know if she wanted to laugh hysterically—hysteria, root word meaning ‘uterine’, oh god—jump up and down in celebration or cry. Her would-be benefactor of materials absorbent looked a little defeated, and that brought Sabina back to the moment. Unexpected twists and personal angst aside, this woman was so…good. Sabina felt completley safe now, and she wanted to keep talking to her for as long as possible. She had the bizarre thought that she wished she could fit in her briefcase, to be carried wherever it was she worked and lived, instead of having to face the day. This flight of fancy made her feel warm and tingly and breathless. Maybe I am starting to lose it.

“May I ask you a personal question, now?”

“Sure, go for it.”

“Do you have any kids?” Haha, now I put her on the spot. Maybe too much? But it can’t be too personal after…and it kind of seems like a good segue, periods…Besides that, she remembered the stuffed rabbit. Sabina didn’t know how much time had passed, but they must’ve been about to reach the end of the line, and it was like a final mystery that had to be solved before they parted company. Who knows why. But I want to know.

“Oh, no, I’m not that old.” Sabina scanned the woman’s countenance for clues as to what this could possibly mean. Old? She looked truly in the prime of life, and seemed very maternal. Not that I would know. But…what I hope ‘maternal’ is like.

“Do you ever see your parents?” Huh, I guess I do look young.

“Nah, not at all.” The dam wasn’t in any danger of breaking here. Sabina sighed. At this point, she felt nothing but detachment around this subject. Just numb.

“If it makes you feel any better, me neither. I—I haven’t spoken to my mom in six years.” For the first time, the woman looked like she was about to cry. Now we’re even, I guess. Sabina forgot everything else—the dwindling passengers, the motion of the train, The Situation, dams breaking, being lost at sea, her own rambling interior monologue—which dissolved into thrumming irrelevance. For a lingering second, she almost felt like she knew the woman. She wanted nothing more than to console her, somehow, to wrap her in her arms like the backpack and hold her tightly for eternities, or at least until the last stop in the line. She’s showing this vulnerability…this weakness...to me. Something about this was extraordinarily fulfilling, and the frustration she had felt earlier began to smudge and lift off of her shoulders as if it were being erased.

“I just asked because…I noticed the…” Sabina pointed very cautiously to the bunny in the woman’s purse. It was beyond adorable, and somehow knowing that she didn’t even have children herself made it all the more lovely. Sabina's body felt light and she could barely find her voice. She didn’t know if she envied the stuffed animal for getting to ride in her purse or the purse itself for its privilege of being wrapped across her body.

“Oh, no, she’s just something I bring with me. For my desk.” She. Sabina smiled to herself at hearing the woman use this personal pronoun for the rabbit. Even cuter. Is this normal? Do people usually decorate their desks with stuffed animals? Sabina didn’t think so. But the woman sounded so sincere in her reply…actually, Sabina realized, she was affecting a false casualness if nothing else. Did I embarrass her? Aw.

“Oh. She’s cute. I had…when I was little…” Sabina struggled to remember any of her stuffed animals or toys in childhood and came up empty. She didn’t know if she’d even had any, actually. But suddenly, she wanted one.

“You have now reached ___ Station. Please remove all your belongings from the train when disboarding if this is your destination. The next stop is ___, the final stop on the ___ line…” The crisp voice droned in from above, reciting the prerecorded message that Sabina could imitate backwards in her sleep.

“This’s my stop. I have to get off here. It’s been wonderful talking to you…”

Sabina froze. This encounter was unlike any she’d ever had, on the subway, at the surface, or…anywhere. She didn’t want it to end, and it felt like hours had gone by even though it also seemed like the conversation was just beginning.

“You too…have a good day.”

“Be safe out there tonight, okay? Stay warm.” The woman exited the train as if she was launching into orbit, or diving…diving into the ocean, into the sea of the city. Likewise—stay warm! Sabina almost yelled out, after the woman was gone and the train—the world—was moving again, after having come to a standstill in her presence. She had seemed like warmth itself.

~o~O~o~

After work, Deborah loosened her scarf on the platform and waited for the next line home, hunched over from enervation. The day had been decent. No attacks, no migraines, no kaleidoscope-world at lunchtime. Her boss had personally thanked her for taking so much initiative. The women she’d been dodging hadn’t ever approached her, surprisingly, to her relief. And yet, she was spent, utterly drained as if everything had gone the opposite way. She mentally prepared herself for dilation later, pulled her hair back and put it up before boarding the train.

My god. Is she still there? The girl from earlier—it felt like a lifetime ago since they’d spoken, though she’d never fully left Deborah’s mind all day—was in the same spot Deborah had found her in during the morning ride, at the back of the car, in much the same position, same backpack, taking up four seats. Rationally Deborah knew that wasn’t possible, but it really appeared to her as if the girl had never left. She wasn’t trying to sleep, this time, though, and something about her posture and the expression on her face was different. Crumpled, resigned, frail, almost fetal. The inside of Deborah’s chest felt like it had been suddenly brushed by someone who had been dragging their feet across carpet, discharging static electricity, and she nearly gasped. But…why? It isn’t that unexpected, she said she sometimes slept on the subway… Even underground, beneath the surface of the city, there was a frigid chill, which splintered the air with something ominous. Try again. I have to do something. She looks like a fallen angel. Poor, poor girl. Poor beautiful girl covered in dust.

“Hey, do you remember me?” Deborah reached out and lightly pressed on her shoulder to get her attention. “We spoke earlier, this morning?” The girl smiled, and swiveled to face her with that glassy, distant, fragile expression Deborah remembered so well, but said nothing. Does she remember me? I can’t tell…

“Look, it’s getting really cold. Supposed to break records tonight. I know you said—well, I can’t remember if—but please, get to a shelter, just tonight. Here, the place on 32nd, I know someone who works there, I’m sure she’ll get you a bed. Just for tonight, okay? Please take this.” Deborah propped her briefcase up on her knee and withdrew a single white business card. As she thrust it out toward her, the girl—what did she say her name was? Sabrina, Salina, something like that?—extended an arm as if to stop her and their hands touched. Deborah’s vision blurred and she caught the railing with her other hand to stabilize herself, almost collapsing as the train lurched forward, but without fear, without head-pounding pain. Her hands are so soft. She looked straight into her eyes—whirlpools of intensity, they really were—and it seemed like she was gazing into a majestic waterfall. Eons passed.

Deborah didn’t know if she pitied this girl, or envied her, or what—Would I have traded my home for having been born correctly? When I was her age, would I have? Would I now, still? Has it ever even occurred to her that that’s something she has that I don’t? She didn’t know whether she wanted to adopt her or make love to her, listen to her or talk to her, kiss her or hold her, brush the dust off like a mother or like a girlfriend, give her money or simply lie down next to her in the train. But all the girl said was, gently but firmly as if for the first time,

“—I can’t stay there”

and whatever invisible conduit or lifeline between them that had allowed Deborah to lose herself in her eyes broke off, which felt like a bone was breaking. In one fluid motion she stood up, swept the backpack onto her shoulders like a black sail being released, opened to the wind, and passed Deborah by a hair’s width to get off the train, before she knew what was happening. The doors closed, and the entire space Deborah now had all to herself echoed with tangible separation. Between the train and the platform, between motion and staying still, inbound and outbound, between the subterranean tunnels and the surface of the city; between young woman and girl, between desire and need, between helpful and helpless, the seen and unseen, known and unknown, real and imagined, sheltered and homeless, day and night.

~o~O~o~