train stations

xviii.

The light was dim. It seemed that the car was split into four cabins, though she wasn't sure. There was a metal bunk bed and a small desk with a chair. She sat on the bottom bed, keeping her backpack on her lap and holding it tight against her chest. Melanie sat in the chair and gazed at her.

"Thank you for letting me stay in here."

"It's no problem. You look like you need a good night's sleep."

"Your friend didn't come with you?"

"No, she had other plans come up—could never miss a party."

"Oh, I'm sorry that you had to come alone."

"No worries. Do you want some water?" She reached under the desk and pulled out a small bottle of water.

"Yeah," she licked her cracking lips. "Thank you."

A few moments of silence passed as she drank. She couldn't remember the last time she had water. The past few days felt like a blur.

"What have you been writing?" Melanie asked, suddenly filling the silence with a loud stillness, like the moment between thunder and lightning.

She stared at the water bottle as she put the lid back on. She cleared her throat. "I'm not sure..." she said. "Letters to my husband, I guess."

"I'm sorry for asking," she said. "If you don't want to tell me anything, you don't have to." Her dark eyes were so inquisitive, curious, concerned, caring—endless.

Swallow me.

"No, it's fine," she said, "I just don't want to bother you with it."

"It won't bother me," she smiled.

"Are you sure?"

She nodded.

"They're letters," she explained. "I guess to my husband—or to myself, or everyone, or no one. Mainly my husband."

"Why?"

"I... I need to tell him things," she said. "It's really hard to explain... I've been a bad wife. I want him to understand. We can't be together anymore, and I want him to know why. I need to confess—I've done a lot wrong. Really, I... Just everything I've done... Or haven't done... Everything I am, actually."

"What did you do?"

"I..." she bit her lip.

"You don't have to tell me."

"I just don't know how to explain it all."

Too much. Too much. Too much.

"Can you read them to me then?"

Again, she gazed at Melanie's dark eyes, the gentle curve of her lips, her sinewy arms—it all felt familiar, more familiar than her husband's eyes (what color were they?). Guilt, shame, frustration welled in her throat.

She took the letters out of her backpack.