You come to me in a black hat and a smaller figure, sitting diagonal from me on the Muni. You hold two thank you bags of something I don’t know. You wear leather shoes, even though I remember you wearing velcro Nikes.
You watch me as I take my seat. And then I watch you watch other people board. Couples stream past for seats in the back. A family of five take the seats next to you. They animate the train with conversation we can’t understand but with an energy we can feel. They make you smile under your mask. I watch you watch them. And it's like none of us need to talk. None of us will ever talk. We are all each other’s ghosts.
Today, you are different from how I knew you, tucked in the upstairs bedroom. We watched tennis together. The ball bounced back and forth, and the court looked so small on your TV screen.
This is your stop. You get up and make your way to the exit.
When the train makes you sway, you sway. No cane this time. But you hold onto the metal support as the train eases to a stop. Your eyes are still watching the family of five and eventually, the father looks you up and down before turning back to his flock. I want to reach for your gaze but you turn to the window, to storefronts and pedestrians passing quickly. You’re resolved to go somewhere, no longer resigned to the upstairs bedroom, the creakiness in your bones, your electrocuted heart. I don’t know you at all, but you remind me of someone I knew. Something about the way you stand, even though your back is bent and your body is small. You’re on your own two feet. The person I knew wanted that so very badly.
You and your thank you bags leave the train. I get off at the next stop. The wind is blowing tonight.
I look for the door to my friend's birthday party. When I enter, my voice drains into the sound of other people talking. I find myself talking louder and louder. And then listening. And then weaseling through the gaps for a drink.