Perfect

           

 

            Troy woke up earlier than usual today. It was 6:23 in the morning. His eyes were dry and red and the bags underneath them pulled on his eyelids. He wanted to go back to sleep and reclaim the hours of peace he was owed. But alas, his tattered and stubborn mind refused to rest and began spewing endless phrases that, when translated by his suffering synapses, dictated what needed to be done this very day. Troy sighed, then forced his lifeless husk to detach itself from the cozy mattress.

 

            “What a perfect day,” Troy moaned. After performing his morning rituals he waited in the living room and waited. He gathered his things, but today he made sure he brought his camera. He needed to take pictures for a group project that day. His father noticed his son’s premature presence.

 

            “What time’s your train?” the father asked.

            “Eight-fifty-four. Same as always,” he whispered. It was too early to stretch his vocal chords. Just last night, he strained his voice. Some random stranger on a bike didn’t bother to send a warning of the imminent collision. The biker continued on his way, swearing back at the angry boy whose books have been knocked onto the floor. I guess it wasn’t entirely the biker’s fault, he thought to himself on the couch, I was wearing my headphones. His headphones were a part of his everyday attire; his headphones were a part of his body. He would often play music while walking down the campus just to block out the chaotic noise of people’s chattering, and mindless banter. He didn’t want to hear about the latest news on Kim Kardashian, or what a kid named Hank did at the fraternity party last night. He just wanted to be left alone. Sometimes he would completely forget to charge his iPod, but that did not hinder him from putting them on just to dim out the same noises he avoided. Instead of music, he listened to his thoughts harmoniously merging into a cacophonic symphony. This amused him—it blocked the noise after all.

 

             “Don’t forget to bring an umbrella,” his father cautioned. “It’s pouring out there.”

 

             “I got it.” His father left and he was alone. “What a perfect day.”

 

             A few hours later, Troy began walking towards the information desk at the train station. He asked the person behind the counter for a map.

 

            “Uh, good morning,” he greeted with a soft voice. “May I have a schedule?”

            “What kind of schedule?” the lady asked.

            “Uh, a train schedule?” The lady was having a perfect day, too. She rolled her eyes and gave him the map. “It was the only map there,” he murmured, “what other map is there?”

 

            “Don’t give me an attitude, boy. I’m having a good day.” She said.

 

            “Well it doesn’t seem like it, old lady.”

            “Who you callin’ old?” she asked. She had the map in her hand until she dropped it. “You know what… we’re out of maps. Sorry.” She took the rest of the maps and threw them in the trash.

 

            “Fine! Be that way you old hag.” Troy yelled and he stormed away. He asked a man waiting at the station what time the train arrived. 4:33. Troy thanked him and he walked up the stairs to wait for the train. The wind and rain blew hard as he struggled to open his umbrella. When he opened it, the umbrella broke.

 

            “Goddammit!” he yelled. “What a perfect fuckin’ day!” A part of him wanted to go home and stay home. He took a deep breath and reluctantly waited on the bench. The rain and wind spat at his face. He pulled up his hood but not for his sake, but for his headphones’. He covered his camera and tried to protect the lens. These pictures better be worth it. He turned on his iPod and began searching for a new song to calm his nerves. After choosing one, he played it on its loudest volume. He wanted to shut everyone out. It’s for their own good, he thought.

 

            “Excuse me,” a voice said. He looked up. It was strange, his headphones had successfully blocked out all noise ever since he got it as a gift, so it took him by surprise that someone’s voice have managed to brave his thick barrier. Who, he thought, whose voice do I hear? “Is this the train to New York?”

 

            She was standing in front of him. Troy noticed her leather boots and he looked up slowly. His eyes moved up her white thighs and rose-red coat with ebony buttons. She had a large bag on her right shoulder. Her arms were crossed, trying to protect her chest from the violent winds. She was shivering. The wind tossed her golden hair, obscuring her fair face.

 

            “Yes.” He answered, taking off his headphones.

            “What time is the train coming?” she asked. Immediately he realized she had a thick accent. Foreign, but smooth.

            “The train comes at around 4:33” Troy replied. “Don’t worry you haven’t missed it.”

            “Oh, thank you,” she smiled, relieved. She reached into her bag for her purse.

            “May I just say,” he began. “You have a beautiful accent.”

            She looked up and blushed. “Thank you,” she laughed.

            “Where’re you from?”

            “France.” Her French voice eased him. He couldn’t help but smile. He never heard anyone speak with a French accent before—a real French accent; not Creole, or any other “French” accent you may have heard on TV or film. A real French accent.

            “May I sit?” she asked.

            “Of course!” He said without hesitation. He moved over to allow space for her to sit. As she sat, he noticed her rose red lips and luminous eyes. She was beautiful. Now, he was no expert on how to talk to women, or how to attract women, but all of that didn’t seem to matter to him. He just, for some odd reason, wanted to have a conversation with this beautiful young French lady. She was a student trying to earn her doctorate in French literature. She’s originally from a small town just past Paris and currently lives in New York. She remarked how different New York was compared to New Jersey.

 

            “It’s the same, but I feel New Jersey is more, eh, quiet than New York.”

 

            “Yeah,” he smiled. “Jersey’s a decent place to live quietly, compared to New York at least. Cars and trains everywhere an all.” They share a laugh. “Y’know, I wish I paid attention in my French class, “ he told her.

 

            “Parlez-vous français?” she asked. She knew he didn’t, but she was curious how much he knew. “What do you know?” Immediately, the boy thought to say Sacrebleu, but he knew it had a negative connotation. No, he wanted to impress her.

 

“Uh, ¿comment appelle tu?” he asked.

“Ah, ¿comment t’ appelle tu?” she corrected. “Je m’appelle Sarah.”

 

            “Sarah,” he treasured that name. He told her his, “Je m’appelle Troy.”  They shook hands. Her hands were soft. They were as soft as the pillow he woke up on. He took care not to squeeze her hand. His firm and rough hands went limp to comfort her.

 

             4:33 pm. Time passed by and the train arrived. She got up to board the train.

             “It was nice meeting you, Sarah,” he said.

 

             “It was nice meeting you, too.” She boarded. As she boarded the train he glanced over. He couldn’t help but sit there and say: “Au revoir!” She looked up and smiled. “Au revoir!”  He thought about asking for her number, but ultimately decided not to, believing that sometimes, life throws you a single moment— a moment to treasure for the rest of your life, reminding you of a simpler time, when two complete strangers just meet and talk. A simple moment. A perfect moment.

 

              The train left and he sat alone again, smiling.

 

              A few seconds later he realized…

             “That was my train,” Troy said to himself. He let out a sigh. “Damn. What a perfect day…”