by Samantha C., 17
Lunette couldn’t resist but snort at the train’s newcomers at the 9:07 p.m. stop. Each one looks like they’ve been kicked by real society. In a crowd, none of us would stand out. The man is my age—maybe even younger—but already has eye bags that hang like my childhood curtains. His left arm is dragged down an extra inch from his briefcase. It’s a miracle nothing expensive falls through the crack between the yellow line and train, becoming home to the ants; besides, his sparkly watch is probably fake anyway. A gift from an unhappy wife to butter up an unhappy husband. His bag was meant to be brown, but has been buried in chalk from being slammed against brick buildings and being kneed by someone with paint on their clothes. He hides under a black suit, fit for a funeral. Another businesswoman walks in immediately after, rolling her eyes at his slow pace. The idea of slow walkers makes a volcano erupt from the deepest pit on Lunette’s being. It becomes a game for her; whenever someone starts walking slower than ten miles per hour, Lunette takes every step as if she’s escaping a crocodile. People will shout at her every time she aggressively jabs them in the shoulder, almost knocking them down all together, but Lunette only quickens the pace. Her father never understood Lunette’s choice to move into the city. But, you hate noise. And you hate people, added her mother. Lunette figured, if I hate everything else about my life, one more thing won’t change anything, really.
Lunette hates her job but at least it moves fast. The light rail benefits Lunette and her power naps. By the time she opens her eyes it’s been two stops and it’s 9:16. Her coworker is nudging her to punch tickets. He reminds Lunette of her worst professor from—back when. Maybe they’re related, with being a narcissistic critic running through their DNA. Lunette would rather punch him but that’s just her.
Lunette is supposed to have a whole ridiculous speech mouthed off at every passenger, as if everyone isn’t already dead asleep and trying to erase the fact that the mundane cycle repeats again tomorrow. Nobody wants to hear Lunette recite “Morning / Afternoon / Evening, hope you are well, may I have your ticket?” to them and then to the next few brainless and faceless seat holders. If someone doesn’t actually care, Lunette figures, best to save us from the false confidence out of the gate. Besides, the higher we climb the harder we fall and die.
Lunette holds out her weapon. “Ticket?” Lunette has to slide on the mask always living in her pocket to conceal her boredom. He hands her the ticket and Lunette punches a hole. The cutout piece doesn’t fall out and land on the ground for Lunette to ‘clean’ up later. It hangs, slightly attached like a baby tooth that doesn’t know how to give up. Lunette’s supposed to tear the piece off, but nothing goes the way it’s supposed to. She shoves it in her pocket.
Lunette readies her ammunition. “Tickets?” The two teenagers put on the water works and Lunette rolls her eyes, already hearing their words before they actually say. “Could we keep our tickets, please?”
Lunette shakes her head. “No… sorry.” The ticket is already in her pocket. She decides it’s time for a break and Lunette disintegrates into a seat. The clock above the exit reads as 9:23. The only way she manages to keep even just one eye open is tracing her finger on the seat fabric’s design. From the moment Lunette started working on the train it had reminded her of a Pollock painting. The horizontal firework lines mask the filth left by pretentious people who feel the need to kick up their feet as if the train is their home. The red splattered stitches match the expired raspberries in Lunette’s fridge. It’s nowhere near being complementary to the white-ish baby blue and even makes Lunette’s eyes water. The best quality of the design is vertical black lines. She figures they are realistically incorporated to make sure occupants remain in a reasonable amount of space. There’s also a chance the mastermind wanted to rebalance and oppose all that erratic colors underneath. Maybe it’s meant to represent how an empty void will always over power any and all emotions. That’s dumb. It’s just a fabric design. To return to her stillness, Lunette places one hand in her pocket, wanting to shred every ticket ever collected, and the other on her bouncing leg.
Reverie places the painting onto the train seat first, then takes her place right beside it. One hand remains firm atop the canvas and Reverie’s head locks in place looking outside the window. A tree next to the track takes on a surrealist perspective. Through squinting, Reverie can visualize a fish. There is an opening within the leaves, perfect for the animal’s iris, which is a phthalo blue. Right at the edge of a branch, a bird rests, becoming the fish’s dinner. That’s it, the dots click in Reverie’s imagination. She sets the painting on the seat in front of her. The top right corner is currently empty, the perfect spot for a bird. From her pocket, Reverie pulls out a stolen mini golf pencil and just barely grazes the canvas before being asked, “May I have your ticket?”
The entrancing painting has Lunette’s eyes wide open. She could try to find one, but there’s no fault in its individuality. Lunette loves how vibrant the colors are. Each one is an over exaggeration of reality’s lens. Instead of a bland gray, the cloud’s shadows are blended with an Aquaman blue. They resemble the shape of a heart and act like they’d explode with rain if the child in the painting gave permission. The sky is closer in relation to a tie-die shirt rather than a true sunset. The grass looks radioactive and could probably use some rain water. There’s only one realistic aspect to the surrealist piece: the little girl running on the hill. Every fabric crease is highlighted. You could even count the strands of hair in the character’s braid. If Lunette was told it was a cut out photo, there would be no doubt in Lunette’s mind. To Lunette and the little girl, the background looks exactly as it’s meant to.
“Miss—here,” Reverie loosely holds out her ticket. Lunette snaps back to reality, accidentally snatching the ticket much harder than she meant to.
“Sorry, thank you.” She hands the ticket back. “This looks amazing.”
“Thanks, it’s not quite done yet, though. I might add to it a bit tomorrow.”
“Huh,” Lunette pauses, looking at the stretched canvas’ sides. “I always made painting the edges the last step, like an easy finale.”
“I do that first. Like starting on the shallow end of a pool instead of jumping in too deep too soon. You’re an artist?”
“…No,” Lunette shoves both hands into her pockets. “Not anymore.” Her face darkens as the train’s lights flicker. Stupid thing, it’s supposed to be reliable. How can it fail at the one job it was made to do?
The lights come back on, a degree bright and more of an auburn rather than a pure white. “You should really get back into it. Everyone could use a creative outlet, right?” Lunette pauses, before going back to her job. “Have a good night.” Lunette stares down everyone else in the train cart. Not a single one of them stands out, not anymore. Heads down, in phones, in books, or sleeping. No smiles. Just all suits and ties.
Lunette rolls her eyes, turns to walk toward the train car’s doorway. While leaning against the way, the train brakes at the final station and Lunette stumbles to regain her footing. Initially she couldn’t bear to look up from the ground. Why would that girl care for Lunette’s opinions? Why would she take advice from a quitter? She’s actually putting in the work for her dreams, unlike others. Lunette’s voice alters into her old professor’s. Every idea, every suggestion, it was all wrong. Every time. How could this moment live as anything else? All eyes are on Lunette—some because she’s blocking the exit—but she only locks her gaze with Reverie. All their dulling suits, it makes Lunette’s stomach twist. When they stand all together, the emptiness blends into one unit. Lunette refuses to be a part of this funeral another minute.
She shouts “What if she’s chasing a bird?”
Middletown, New Jersey
Bridge Ink 