Confessions on the 7:45(7)

Maybe it was just one of those strange, deep connections that take you by surprise like falling in love. Or was it that delay, the darkened car, the powerlessness of waiting?

Sometimes it just happened that way with women, an instant intimacy. Selena had experienced it a number of times. You just look at each other—and you know. The journey from girlhood to womanhood, the hopes and dreams they all share, how life rarely delivers, and, even if it does, how it’s never quite what you expected. There’s no glass slipper, no Prince Charming. That princess updo, it hurts after a while, your hair pulled too taut, the pins too sharp. The disappointments, the dawning of reality. And, yes, all the good things too—real love, true friendship, the birth of children. You just look into her eyes, and you know the path, the journey, all the hills and valleys, the cosmic joke of it.

The other woman spoke again.

“Did you ever do something you really regretted?”

It was almost a whisper. Maybe she was just talking to herself—which Selena did all the time. Whole conversations in the shower.

Who were you talking to? Oliver, her oldest, the curious one, wanted to know the other night.

Myself, she told him.

That’s weird.

At least she could be sure someone was listening, engaged. Often, she had excellent advice for herself in the shower, as if there was a little therapist in her head, one who had all the answers.

“Yes,” Selena said now. “Of course.”

Oh, there were so many things, stretching back as far as childhood. She regretted not inviting Marty Jasper to her fifth-grade birthday party; Marty was an odd kid, not always nice, and everyone avoided her. They weren’t friends, but Selena should have invited her to be kind. She regretted losing her virginity on a dare, then losing her best friend because of it. There were some one-night stands in college that were risky, almost dangerous. She had regrets (lots) about her ex-boyfriend Will, the one everyone thought she would marry. She should have tried harder to breastfeed; now her kids were finicky eaters because of that probably. Or maybe not. Who knew? There were other things. She could fill a book with her lists of regrets.

“I’m sleeping with my boss,” said the other woman.

“Oh,” said Selena, surprised but somehow not. “That one.”

Just last year her good friend Leona had slept with her boss—both of them married; what a mess.

“If I break up with him,” the other woman went on, “I think it could get very ugly. He wants to leave his wife for me.”

“Oh,” said Selena, leaning in. She felt a kind of salacious glee, a delightful escape from her own drama.

“His wife owns the company,” she said. “Where we both work.”

“Hmm,” said Selena, nodding. She wasn’t sure what else to say. It happened sometimes, didn’t it? You just needed to confess? It was all too much to hold in; you couldn’t tell the people closest to you for a million reasons. That’s why people spilled their guts to the bartender, the hairdresser, right?

Sometimes a stranger was the safest place in your life.

The other woman turned to look at her in the dim of the broken-down car. She lifted a hand to her mouth, her eyes going wide.

“I’m sorry!” she said. “Why did I just tell you that?”

“Obviously,” said Selena, feeling motherly and knowing, “you needed to talk.”

Selena knew how that felt. She hadn’t told a single soul about Graham. Not her mother, not her sister, not Beth. It was a stone in her gut, an acidic ache in her throat. What a relief it would be to release it. But how could she tell anyone? Her marriage—Graham and Selena—it was the fairy tale, the love-at-first-sight, happily-ever-after. It was the envy of—everyone. Now, they were just like everyone else—pitifully flawed, broken—possibly beyond repair.

The train sat, and Selena felt the crush of despair, the dark outside deepening, the stillness of the train expanding.

“I’m Martha,” said the other woman, offering her hand.

“Selena,” she said, taking it. Martha’s hand was cool, delicate, but her grip firm.

Martha started rifling through her bag, retrieving two minibar-sized bottles of vodka. She handed one to Selena, who took it with a smile. It reminded her of her best friend and boss, Beth, who hoarded mini-bottles of everything—booze, shampoo, moisturizer, hand sanitizer, mouthwash. She’d load up at hotels, stashing the take in her suitcase, her tote. Chances were if you needed anything, needle and thread, a comb, mouthwash, lotion, Beth had it somewhere in the giant bag she hauled with her everywhere.

Martha cracked open the tiny bottle and, after a moment of hesitation, Selena did the same.

“To making a shitty day a little better,” said Martha. They clinked bottles, Selena looking out for a conductor. You weren’t supposed to drink on the train, were you? She felt the little tingle of glee she always felt when she was breaking a rule.

“Cheers,” she said.

The vodka was warm, a slick down her throat, heat on her cheeks. Another sip and she felt a welcome lightness. The train stayed still and dark. Some of the other passengers were talking quietly on their phones. The man across from them was sleeping, his head resting on his rolled-up jacket.

Selena felt her phone ring in her pocket and fished it out. FaceTime.

“I have to get this,” she said. Martha nodded, reached for the bottle, and Selena handed it to her to hold.