Mind the Gap | ✔️

March 10 @ 9:33 A.M.: Evan

At Kendall/MIT station, two suited guys stormed the seats near mine, quick and unstoppable like a pair of ninjas. Once they had secured their territory, they piled their smart suitcases on the fourth chair of our mini compartment, erecting a wall to fend off further intrusion.

"Only free markets can save us," Suit A said. He sat across from me, and his anthracite tie gleamed in the light of the spring sun, like a scaly snake about to strangle him.

I'd soon have to wear such a creature, too. These were my last days in academia. 

In a few days, Helen and her beloved Chancellor would be a thing of my past. 

I would no longer had to endure the chancellor's wobbly double chin. No longer had to listen to his incessant blabbering. The greasy skin of his too-high forehead, the dandruff from his messy, shoulder-length hair adorning his costly sweaters would soon remain out of my sight for good.

The insurance company job would start on the first of April. The thought itself felt so unreal.

Just as unreal as what I had seen of Best Boston Insurances offices two weeks ago.

"Amen to that. Free markets will save us," Suit B agreed. 

I momentarily wondered if I should, too, nod at the statement—after all, I'd soon be one of them.

As the train accelerated, Suit A's polished shoes inched forward, ignoring the virtual gap dividing us.

A Trader Joe's bag between my feet stopped their progress.

I concentrated on the character sheet that my tablet displayed. I had finished most of the programming of Warriors of Math. The storyline of the app was solid, with the heroes seeking the prime numbers that the villain had stolen and hidden in his underground vault. The code ran smoothly; the graphics were in place.

What was missing, though, were the names for some of the game's characters.

I had settled on Euclid for the prime hero. He should be called like the old Greek mathematician, the father of geometry. And his faithful companion would, of course, be Ada, named after Ada Lovelace, one of the world's first programmers.

I was just racking my brain for the villain's name when Suit B snorted into his newspaper.

"City government suggests increasing the funding for healthcare." The way he said it made the idea sound like mass murder. "What a waste of taxpayer money!"

"We need to restrict the role of the government, that's what Milton Friedman says."

"Milton who?" Suit A asked.

"He was an economist and mathematician."

A mathematician? I nodded to myself and suppressed a grin. Here was my villain's name. Milton, I wrote. He did sound like someone hoarding prime numbers and other valuables.

Outside, a sun-bathed billboard advertising organic rye cookies told me we were drawing into Charles/MGH station. My stomach rumbled, asking for biscuit-shaped carbs, but I ignored it. Instead, as we slowed down, I checked out the windows of the train next to us, hoping to get another peek at the woman with the blue or pink hair.

I had been looking for her each morning since our last encounter, but I had pitifully failed to see her face for at least two weeks.

For all I knew, she could very well be on the other side of the world right now. She could be combating climate changes in Antarctica, saving koalas in Australia or hugging trees in Siberia.

The other train stood still while ours slowed down. As it passed me, each of its windows held a little picture of commuters, most of them concentrated on their smartphones, a few still reading newspapers, even fewer talking.

The suits beside me had switched to another  conversation topic. They were now talking about macroeconomics.

While a window-chain of microscenes was passing us.

When our train finally stopped, fate held her breath, just for a moment.

Because there she was.

Today, her ever-changing hair had a metallic tinge somewhere between pale gold and platinum silver. The rays of the morning sun lent it an otherworldly gleam.

The ephemeral brilliance of her mane clashed with raw hunger. She had her mouth wide open, about to sink her teeth into an XXXL-sized doughnut. She held the carby monster in one hand while skilfully balancing a Dunkin Donuts cup in the other.

Biting down on her pastry, she stirred up a fine mist of powdered sugar—a cloud of fairy dust.

Suit A had said that consumers needed protection from the government.

She closed her eyes while chewing it as if lost in that utter bliss only junk food could give you. She was a consumer at her finest—peaceful, fed, and beautiful.

Suit A was right. She did deserve protection from whatever dangers life would throw at her.

She opened her eyes and her gaze locked with mine. She smiled.

Powdered sugar clung to her lips, to her left cheek, and to her nose.

The suits blabbered on, but their words didn't register with me anymore. She brushed a strand of platinum from her oval face. Then she took another bold bite from the gigantic doughnut, albeit a tad smaller one this time, without taking her gaze from me—a gaze that was mocking me, teasing me.

She chewed slowly, licking her lips every now and then.

There was a certain challenge in her act.

The challenge that would not remain unanswered, I decided. Two could play that game.

Keeping my eyes locked with hers, I reached into my Trader Joe's bag and started digging through my newly-purchased groceries. On my way to work, I had stopped at the organic food store this morning, knowing I would have to pick up my daughter tonight. It was Janice's turn to stay with me.

Sensible food was actually one of the few things where Helen and I still had some common ground.

Still holding my gaze, my train lady took a swig from her Dunkin Donuts cup.

My fingers curled around an organic carrot. Time for the battle to commence—the epic battle between junk food and healthy fare.

I brought the carrot to my lips and nibbled on it.

She burst out laughing. Coffee sprayed from her mouth, sprinkling the window. Blushing, she looked at the passenger opposite her. The man wore a blue suit and a shocked expression. She hastily offered him the napkin she had held the doughnut with. He smiled as he took it; then used it to dab at his sleeve.

As she reached out for him—with the hand holding the doughnut—her train began to move. She froze, the pastry inches from her co-passenger, and looked at me.

The accelerating Red Line cruelly took her sugary smile away. Another chain of windows followed it, each one depicting commuters in their morning routine. All of them drab, dull, and gray.

All of them so different from my color-changing train lady.

I chewed on my carrot as I pondered her.

Who was she? What were her dreams, her desires, her plans? What would her voice sound like? Her touch feel like? What was her name?

"Societies run on greed," Suit B said. "It's just natural."

Did they? Was I—wanting to see her again, wanting to talk to her, to hear her laugh, to hold her hand—nothing but greedy?

I shrugged. Maybe I was, but it didn't matter.

I needed a way to make contact with her.