4.
Riding to the north side, Milly is one of the few people on the train not staring at or chatting with their phones. She’s the only one standing. It’s muggy. She unzips her jacket. Half the sky is pink and orange, brushed brown by the overcoat of smoke. “Leave it,” Milly mutters to herself. “Leave it behind.” Her face falls flat, eyes glazing over, staring at the sunset.
Milly is a mystery — the mystery.
What’s she thinking about, feeling, right now?
Maybe this: at sunset, on Milly’s twelfth birthday, Father presented the rifle. Pointing at the sky, he said, “Born with a long shadow, you are my instrument, Mildred. Like this weapon …”
Black paint chipping from its well-worn optical scope, wooden stock scratched and faded, the old .22 caliber semiautomatic came to rest in Milly’s hands.
Back then—
The track curves. Jostled by the creaking wobble of the train, Milly blinks several times and exhales. Outside the window, it appears: the old Space Needle. Newer, larger, ominous buildings of green glass and gray polymer have encroached upon its isolation.
Milly puts in old-school earbuds and selects a song.
🎵 “Girl on a Train” - Skizzy Mars 🎵
A young man wearing an antique corduroy jacket and colorful, new hi-top sneakers rises and eases towards her.
Milly lowers the volume.
“Earbuds?” he asks with confidence. “You didn’t get implants?”
“You opened with a question. Smart. You’re no rookie.”
He smiles, dark cheeks forming dimples just above his well-groomed chin strap beard. “Don’t I know you? The club, maybe?”
“You’ll need to be more specific.”
“Ambrosia?”
She nods.
He grins with pearly perfect teeth. “I’m spinning records there tonight.”
“Antiques?”
“Antique music.” He twirls his finger in a circle.
Milly gives him a tiny smile. “Why are tables so expensive at that nightclub?”
He chuckles nervously; his kinky dark hair wobbles. “I-I don’t know, not my department.”
She looks away, plucking out her earbuds.
He recovers. “Um, you coming out? I could get you on the guest list.”
She perks up. “Sure, why not?” She turns. “My stop.”
“Wait, what’s your name?” The train doors open.
“Milly.” She exits without looking back, and then trots down dirty stairs near a weathered sign, nearly obscured by graffiti, that reads:
— NORTHBOUND Ballard/Everett
He exhales wistfully as the doors slide closed in front of him.