Ghost Rider

As the train barrels by tree after tree, warm sunlight shines through the branches, the sparse Spring buds making speckled patterns across my lap. I glance up at an apartment window at 125th St. in Harlem to see a young Hispanic woman hanging out past her sill, talking on a cordless phone.

I make a point to remember her. She'll never know me, and she'll never know I saw her. Two strangers living parallel lives; the only difference being I made a decision to notice her.

People on the platform weave and bob through pedestrian traffic, briefly obstructing my view. The train punches to a start, and just like that, she's gone.