Compartment C

That book.

It taunts me. 

It sits idle, lying face down on the seat between the reader and the window. It was there since I walked into the compartment. The reader had looked up and nodded when she saw me but immediately returned to the bundle of papers in her lap. She didn’t move, shift or adjust herself. Instead, she kept reading, ignoring me and the thin blue book by her side. At least I got the polite afterthought; the book didn’t even get that. So we sit in silence, the book, the reader and me. 

That book.

It taunts me.

The train had lurched forward as it pulled out of the last station. The book slid and almost fell off the seat. It’s on edge now. Yet, the reader made no move to put it in a safer place. It sits there, idle. She doesn’t even look at it. Would she miss it if it were gone? Should I take it from her? I don’t want it. I don’t care what it is; I know I will have no use for it, but I don’t want it to exist.

I look out the window. We are approaching a bridge. The dark pines in the background accentuate its concrete, utilitarian lines. The little stream flowing beneath it is narrow and clear. Wouldn’t it be beautiful to see the book soar out of the window as we crossed the bridge? Its pages fluttered in the sun as it flew towards the happy waters below. The soft splash would be heard as realisation sunk in its owner. 

I have to act fast. The bridge is getting closer, but the windows are still shut, and the book still lies beside the reader. I shouldn’t make any sudden movements. I don’t want her to notice. I stare at the latch that must be opened. Can I open it, or would she complain that I am letting in the late autumn winds? I look out the window and see that the engine is almost at the edge of the bridge. I should do it now. The whine of the metal window frame being pushed up will be drowned by the train thundering over the hollow bridge. It was time. I look at the book. The whole train starts shaking. I freeze. I can’t move. She doesn’t move. The book shifts. We wait in silence, the book, the reader and me. 

In a moment, it is all quiet. The bridge is behind us, still and disappointed. I can’t breathe or sit still. I  loosen my collar and unbutton my jacket, but It is all suffocating and pointless.

I can’t stop looking at that book.

It is taunting me. 

I need air. I get up and leave without looking back. I walk to the restaurant car through the half-empty train. I could find another place to sit. I try to think of other things while I drink coffee, but my mind is stubborn, and the sun is setting. There are more bridges to come, and the book still sits there, idle.

That book.

It is taunting me.

I finish my coffee and walk back to Compartment C.

_{This was inspired by Edward Hopper’s 1938 painting of the same name. I am not good at being in spaces I cannot run away from, so trains, planes, cinema theatres and doctor’s offices are not ideal. I always have this urge to throw things out of the windows in such situations. That feels like a way to interact with the ‘outside’. By removing something from the space I am trapped in, I can somehow take back some control over the confinement. I still love trains, though.}