A Stranger on the Train
While traveling alone (and feeling lonely) I encounter a beautiful and seductive woman on the train.
She was sitting across me as the train wound its way through the mountains. Each time I smiled, she blushed and looked away. And every time I looked out of the corner of my eye, it was to find her staring once more as she gently licked her lips.
I was alone.
Not only physically but emotionally too. My life had slipped through me and past me over the previous six months, and I was traveling without intention. And while the mountains, the wine, and the cold air that hit me when I passed between cars were helping in a myriad of ways, the curve of her neck was curing something else.
When I looked at her, I felt desire for the first time in as long as I could remember. It mixed possibility with a good dose of not giving a fuck.
Her freedom on the other hand was imagined.
Each time she crossed her legs, I got a glimpse of stocking-clad legs and a touch of her garter belt. And when she unbuttoned her blouse just enough for me to see a hint of breast, I thought she might be lonely too.
Let’s say her divorce had only recently gone through (hence still wearing her ring). This was her first trip alone in a long time, and she was done caring about decency or morality.
Did it fit her? Did it matter? Let’s try something else.
Maybe she had always been like this: open to new things, sexually voracious, curious, and unafraid. Possibly I was seeing all that there was to see. She was alive and free and as open as the mountain breeze.
Just as I began another scenario (think fallen royalty from a country I couldn’t pronounce), she raised her glass of wine towards me, finished its contents, and then abruptly stood. I followed her in all three gestures and then along the narrow corridor until she slipped into the restroom at the end of the car.
I locked the door behind me and turned to find her leaning against the sink, looking at me through the mirror. When she leaned forward, it was a clear invitation, and my heart raced as I wondered what possible world I had entered and if I was the sort of man to say yes.
“Don’t tell me your name,” she whispered as she raised her skirt.
The touch of her skin was warm and soft. Even when I ran my fingers over the straps of her garter, I could feel heat and anticipation fill the small room. And as I stared at her, my hands growing more and more daring, I realized I wanted her more than I had wanted anything in over a year.
Her hair smelled of lavender and honey, but her face in the mirror was less tender. Between her parted legs, her exposed breast, and her white fingers gripping the porcelain sink, she was irresistible.
She slid her underwear down to her knees as I freed myself from my pants; her eyes never left mine in the mirror. As I stroked myself, she touched herself; both of us filled the room with aching need and humid breath.
“Fuck me,” she moaned, arching her back as I moved closer. “Hard.”