the 7:40 p.m. train from New York City to Boston is completely full

you board at the last minute, breathless. The conductor scans your ticket

by the time you searched for your seat outside it starts pouring

every aisle packed, every overhead bin crammed, every seat claimed. Except one. Next to a handsome guy, where your seat was

Window seat. A quiet guy in a blue jacket, headphones resting around his neck, a book open in his hands. He glances up as you approaches, their eyes meeting for half a second longer than necessary.