The rumble nudged against her back quickly making its way through her chest. Her toes, barely resting on the aged flooring beneath them, vibrated as the sound tore through her. The sounds of wild horses running, stampeding across open grasslands became a rushing wind drowned out by an ear splitting whistle. From where she was sitting at her table, Ellen, wouldn’t have called it a whistle. It was something more akin to the breaking of a soul, the loss of a loved one, or even falling in love; not that there was much of a difference between them.
Ellen glanced at the clock. Her eyes confirming the mid-morning hour of 10 AM. There had been a time when she set her life to the ticks and tocks of a different sort of clock. One that, she had been told, beat for her. Unlike the poetic words of men, science had proved Ellen’s mother right, hearts beat for themselves. For self preservation.
Her morning sun had risen, the day greeted her, matching her pain. As the train’s soul bore itself, Ellen’s pain pierced the air. She and the train exhausted themselves, nothing but empty chambers and a routine engrained in their fibers. For some, an apartment in a train station would be a one-way ticket to insanity. Where others felt chaos, Ellen felt at home. The linoleum floor once again rumbled under Ellen’s feet, the loose corners ripped from age danced with the trains departure. It was moving onward, but it would be back. Back to her, to the station upon which she lived.
Ellen made her way to the far corner of the kitchen. A small, nook for the refrigerator tucked in against the walls partitioning the bathroom and the hallway. A hallway! The familiar baritone of her clock’s voice whispered, “I’ve never lived in an apartment with a hallway.” Laughter chugged through the layers of her brain, echoing in her ears. Her knuckles whited as she gripped the sides of the fridge. The cold chill of the magnet burning hot against her flesh.
Smaller than a quarter, a simple design of Bryce Canyon. A tiny token of their first trip. Unassuming to most, and yet it held something that carried more weight than Ellen could bear. Even with her eyes closed, with pops of green splotches edged with yellow and orange bursting through the black, she could see the white linen paper. Feel its thick texture, hear the brush of her skin against it the same way she did the day it arrived in the mail. A save the date. Their save the date.
Kindly Save the Date
For the Wedding of:
HELEN
Marie Rosinger
~and~
GREGORY
Paul Andrews
Saturday, August 28th 2021
A post-it note, branded in the blues and golds of their alma mater, scrawled in HELEN’s signature penmanship, “Bobcats reunite! I know it’s been a minute. Can’t wait to see you and the rest of the sexy seven for my special day. —Helen”
Each word had warmed Ellen’s heart. Even as she peeled it back to reveal the full save the date. Gregory. Paul. Andrews. Just a name in that moment. A future joke for future double dates. The inevitable dinners and nights out before rekindling a friendship took a backseat to life. Helen and Ellen, both dating “Gregory Paul Andrews.” How funny? How kismet?
The picture on the back. Done in fine inks, an expense Ellen was sure Helen’s mom would have considered as important as the couple’s attire. A bridge scene complete with blooming trees and the world’s most perfect squirrel looking on as her sorority sister and her boyfriend – Ellen’s Gregory – stood hand in hand. Ellen had dropped the card, the post-it free falling to its final resting place under the refrigerator as she bolted to her laptop. Seven failed password attempts and two resets later she logged onto Facebook.
Ignoring the red circle filled with a number no notification setting should be programmed to reach, she typed “Helen MARIE” into the search bar. She had been wrong. It wasn’t her Gregory. According to the pictures, the endless pictures with the most Hallmark-worthy captions, he was Helen’s Gregory. Helen’s everything.
Ellen’s heart had broken that day, January 3, 2021. It still felt just as fresh now, almost eight months later with her head still pressed against the magnet on the refrigerator.
She had taken the week of work in preparation. Her supervisor believing Helen was out on another great camping adventure. There would be no more camping adventures. No more adventures. No more Gregory.
Ellen’s fingers cried out as they dragged against the steel door. The same fingers that had wanted to call Helen and warn her about who she was marrying. The same fingers that now flipped through her day planner, that picked up her cellphone to confirm what her body already knew.
Today was August 28th. The clock had run out. There was no warning Helen now. There was no heartbeat left for Ellen. But there was the train, her only companion outside of her heart ache. It would be back, back to her, back to her station. She counted the seconds as she walked. Her feet sticking to the wooden floors, the varnish long since worn no longer able to fight against the late summer temperatures.
The train. The only kind of clock Ellen wanted to set her time by. . .
She grabbed her jean jacket. The fabric soft between her fingers and against her skin. A small measure of comfort in a world bleak and unrelenting. Her train steadfast in its approach. Already she could feel the distant rumbles. Her own engine ignited. Ellen ran downstairs and into the train station. Her commuter pass clutched tightly in her hands, she ran through the gate.
Her train. Her new sunrise and sunset. A clock she knew she could count on was coming around the bend. One that when it destroyed her, it would finish her. Unlike Gregory.