Staring at the baggage cars so hard my eyes crossed, I simply couldn’t process at that speed. Had I peeked through the trees, I might’ve seen you next to me. I approached the turn on Page, breath catching in my throat. Took the hard left and gave it a little gas up and over the bridge. Seconds later you were gone for good, ensconced in the chuggachugga of all that steel.
For a time, we moved at the same pace in the same direction. Which is to say: I think we did the best we could with what we had.
Jay Jolles is an emerging writer with work in Pidgeonholes, The Atticus Review and Avidly. He reluctantly lives in the other Williamsburg. Virginia, not New York.