I ride the train to and from work every day. I’m what they call a regular rider. There are several of us. 

There’s the man in the gray suit with the pretty wife. On Fridays, he brings her flowers.  Another young guy is always on his laptop. Maybe he’s a writer. There’s a medical student who creates hybrid orchids by cross pollination. She showed me pictures in her photo album. 

There’s an older woman who dresses in a neat skirt and a sweater, her white hair swept up in a French chignon. I am envious of how much her husband loves her. He holds her hand until she’s on board and then watches from the platform until the train is out of sight.

In possession of my monthly train pass, I do my usual commuter routine. Making my way down the aisle in a rush, I look for a window seat with nobody next to me. I’m tired. I might even sleep. Train sleep is different from other sleep. Even if you doze off, a part of you is listening for the conductor to announce the next stop. Sliding into a seat, I pile my briefcase and books next to me, claiming the space, and close my eyes. I won’t sleep but perhaps will dream. 

The train begins moving and I hear the whistle, a lonesome note above the rest of the noise. The conductor punches my ticket, Soon, the familiar rocking motion lulls me into a drowsy, trancelike nap. Images from the day play behind my eyes. A homeless man who said he didn’t want my money, just my acknowledgement that he exists. The sad looking girl perched on a brownstone stoop. Artists in a vacant lot creating a mural on the side of an old building. 

From somewhere far away, a baby starts fussing. Her teenage parents are arguing. Even in my somnambulant state, I realize these sounds are coming from nearby.  

“Know what your problem is? You got a pissy attitude,” he said.

“No, I don’t,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. “You’re the one with the attitude.” He told the baby to shut up. The words stung. I winced like I’d been slapped. On cue, the baby cried louder. 

“You better make her shut the fuck up!” he said.

“Shut up, Tatiana!” her mother said. The harshness of her mother’s voice stopped the baby's crying for a minute, but it didn’t last long.  My eyes were closed but I felt my fist ball up. I swear, if they say shut up one more time, so help me…

“Shut up, Tatiana,” the father said. “That lady in front of us is trying to sleep.” 

Sighing, I opened my eyes and got up on my knees, looking back over my seat at the family. A pale girl with guarded, smoked-glass eyes stared back at me. I held her gaze for a moment, until a wave of despair washed over me, and I had to look away. She sat next to a boy wearing a necklace with a silver gun charm hanging from it and she was holding a dirty baby tied to a blue balloon.

“She’s not bothering me, really,” I said, “She’s probably just had a long day."  The baby grabbed at the balloon.

“No, Tatiana!” her mother yelled, and the baby started wailing. In a feeble attempt to smooth-over a bad situation (I do this often) I asked, “Is Tatiana afraid of strangers?”

The couple shifted uncomfortably in their seats. The man in the gray suit looked over the top of his newspaper. “She could come sit with me for a little while. Give you guys a much-needed break? Tatiana reminds me of my daughter when she was that age.” 

The baby looked up at me and we smiled at each other. Now we were introduced. Standing up, I put out my hands, and she reached up for me. Her parents both looked down at their cellphones.

We played all the baby games. Pat-a-cake, peek-a-boo, and Who’s a Cute Little Girl?  We batted the blue balloon, and her baby laughter made me laugh. The medical student laughed too. The woman with the neat skirt gave the baby a cookie.  Together, we looked out the window at patchwork farms and blue-collar towns. 

The train began to slow down as the sun dipped low in the sky.  It was the end of the line.

“Tatiana is a good baby,” I said, releasing her tiny hand as she sat back down on her mother’s lap.

“I’m having another one in August. I hope this time it’s a boy.” 

The baby’s father didn’t look up from his cellphone.  I sat back down in my seat as the train lurched to a stop. I watched the baby’s mother limp slowly to the exit. I hadn’t known. The writer looked up as she passed and then glanced back at me before putting his computer away.

I felt a lump in the back of my throat. Gathering up my books and briefcase, I stood up and waved. The mother smiled ruefully as the baby waved bye-bye from the door. 

I watched the old man collect the old woman, taking her hand in his. The man in the gray suit held the door open for me and I walked slowly through the parking lot to my car. I just wanted to get home. 

Before reaching the first red light, I began to cry.