Sometimes in the subway Elsa did not mind the iron maiden press of strangers against her sides, and this was how she knew she must leave the city. A pale man shifted to make room for a woman carrying a baby with balled fists and closed eyes. In doing so, he moved so close to Elsa that she could feel the contours of his body beneath his clothes. It occurred to her that this was how they would stand if they were lovers. Suddenly, she wanted very badly to cry. The only thought that stopped her was this: if she did, she knew, no one would turn to ask her what was wrong. They would instead continue to stare dully out the windows at the muddy blur of the tunnel flashing by.
Midway between San Fransisco and Berkely, the subway goes underwater. Elsa had taken this route many times and knew by heart the moment when the land dropped away and the ocean gripped the train tightly with both hands. She closed her eyes exactly when.
Her ears popped like popcorn.
She leaned back.
The man standing behind her smelled like rain and old paper. He was wearing a dark pink jacket made of cordoroy. It was soft and fragile to the touch. His name, Elsa decided at random, was Jackson.
She wanted him to ask her if she knew where they were.
She wanted to be the one to say, "The sea."
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