⪠How to Ride the Train When Youâre a Lesbian
Sometimes in the morning, me and my girlfriend ride the redline together. Only when sheâs running late. (Sheâs running late a lot). Our eyelids are heavy, hair frizzy. She always looks different than she did an hour ago, her arms around me, warm. Itâs not that her hair wasnât frizzy- itâs that sheâs vibrating now, winding up for the day. She looks beautiful, chewing on her chapped lips. We wait for my train, that comes at 7:12 everyday. I check my email. She sneezes. Somebody else on the platform says bless you. I keep reading my email. It smells like piss. I donât reach for her hand. We sit together on the train. I smile at her, put my headphones in, pull a book out. I sneak peaks at her, sometimes, like a kid with a crush. Count the freckles on her cheek. Laugh at the way her hair is sticking up. Quick though, always quick, when nobody is looking. I promise you, when nobody is looking.
When the train pulls up at my stop, I pause. I always pause. Sometimes, I just tell her to have a good day. âBye, Beth,â I say. âHave a good day!â Nothing else. Barely a smile. On the way home, I see other lesbians on the train. Other people see them too. Handsome, butch. People stare. They are unmistakable. Loud, vibrant, visible. They cannot hide. Still, they smile at me, in my patchwork jean jackets and long, floral skirts. They see me when nobody else can. I wonder if they can hear me too. If they could, Iâd say this: Let me hide us both. Only for a moment, only until the woman with the pursed lips and sharp perfume gets off at Thorndale, or the man in the Cubs jersey glaring at you finds something else to be mad about. I can make it so we only see each other. I can make it so youâre safe. But I canât. Iâm not sure youâd want me too anyways. I just smile back. I love you, I say. And you say it back. Itâs not enough. I get to say âBye Beth! Have a good day!â Sometimes, I am so lucky, it makes my bones sticky, like a kid whoâs gotten away with sneaking candy late at night, no chocolate mustache or grimy fingers. I get away. Bye Beth! Have a good day!
Sometimes, have a good day isnât enough. Sometimes, I test my luck. I say I love you, squeeze her hand. I do it quick. Iâm scared. Iâm not brave. I made a call on the train, late at night. I said, âmy girlfriendâ on the phone. The man across from me licked his lips. When I hung up, he asked me if I was a lesbo, or something. I pretended I couldnât hear him. He said it louder. I shook, slightly, closed my eyes. The seat seemed smaller, like it was trying to suffocate me, stained and still. He got up, sat next to me. Wanted to know if I heard him. Put his hand on my leg, calloused fingers. My heart was in my throat, heavy, strangling me. He gave up. Thank God, he gave up. I give up too. I just squeeze her hand, calloused, in a way I know, in a way thatâs soft. I tell her I love her. Sheâs the only one who hears me.
Sometimes, I cup her face. Iâm chicken. I donât kiss her. I say I love you. I say it braver. I say it with everything in me. I look at her, so she can see all of me. The wrinkles in my heart and creases in my soul. She says it back. Once, a man pushed me, while I waited on the platform at Harrison. I was chatting with a friend. âIâm so gay,â I said. I think. Something. Had a stupid pin on, big letters. Something that broadcasted myself to the world. I was young, soul smooth, unblemished. I thought I was made of steel, the way I did when I was a child- skipping, running, shouting. I wanted to say excuse me, I wanted to say, what the fuck, but I couldnât find my voice. I stared instead, misty eyed. âFuck you, dyke, â he said. I crawled into myself, walked back up the stairs, forgot where I was going. I felt like the little girl who stopped running and skipping and shouting when she fell on the sidewalk, two kneecaps scraped, the pain hissing and boiling. He got on the train, not a scratch on him.
Sometimes, Iâm furious I canât have more. Sometimes, my stomach feels like the sun, like itâll burn me, like Iâm glowing. I want more. I want it all. I kiss her. Cheek, mouth. It doesnât matter. I kiss her. âI love you, have a good day.â I tell her, proud, squeezing her hand. Shining. I push past the sardine pack of people to the train door. Iâm smiling, up the escalator. Until Iâm not. One time, my girlfriend rode the redline next to a guy who spent 12 stops talking about how he wanted to kill a gay person. Any gay person. He was just in the mood, I guess. She held her breath for 12 stops. Donât make any sudden movements. Donât let him see me. A week ago, some teenage boys beat the shit out of a lesbian couple on a train in London. Iâve seen their picture everywhere. Bloody noses, one looking straight at the camera, mouth agape. The other staring at her own hands, face scrunched up. I havenât read the details. I donât need to. I need to. I canât. Iâm too chicken. When I get off the escalator, I think Iâm going to be sick. The sun inside me has burnt her- left her in a train car where everybody knows sheâs a dyke. I am safe. Brave, arrogant, safe. Sheâs not. I keep checking her location, until I see sheâs arrived at work. I want to say Iâm sorry, I want to say fuck sorry. I donât say any of it- I donât think any of it. When weâre both home, I kiss her freckles and her chapped lips and her silly, messy hair. I stare at her for as long as I want, until she blushes and tells me to fuck off, laughing with a snort. I hold her face in my hands, I hold her hand in my hand. I say I love you over and over again. Until sheâs asleep, arms warm around me. The next morning, I get back on the train. The platform still smells like piss.
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