The Oracle
A hungover morning on a London train, a mysterious woman who sees too much, and the quiet passage of strangers through our lives.
I drank a bottle of cheap, white wine last night. 5.30 British Pounds to be exact. A fair price for a warm, fuzzy, fleeting feeling.
The liquid slid down my throat with ease. I wrote in my notebook in a nonsensical fashion, sipping my drink during the moments in between. After one glass, I felt full and tired of the Pinot Grigio. I poured another, spitefully. There is a past version of me existing somewhere in the cosmos (20 years old with everything to prove and nothing to lose) that would be laughing and teasing my glaringly weak tolerance. An hour passed and the last few drops rested in my belly comfortably. Satisfied with myself, I tossed my paper and pen aside and closed my heavy eyes- just for a moment.
Morning came abruptly. Picture the following scene: a disgruntled, hungover girl slouched against the train window. Sunglasses on, despite it being an obviously cloudy, rainy day. A scowl pulling at the corners of her mouth. Muscles tense and aching, partly from a boxing class a few days before, and partly from a strange night's sleep and an arrogant fight she felt she simply had to pick with a shitty alcoholic beverage from the local convenience store. A woman stared from across the way.
I stared back, through the dark tint of my glasses. I wondered if she could see my eyes, if she could feel them squinting back. She was an older lady with an inquisitive facial expression and strangely familiar presence. Despite my clear defense system comprised of clunky headphones, closed-off body language, black spectacles, and an impenetrable, brooding composure, it felt as though she could see right through me. It was if she knew everything, like some ancient, all-seeing oracle. She sized me up for a while, studying me carefully. A part of me felt violated, frustrated at how brazen this stranger was. I shifted my position, facing her head-on now. She smirked, chuckled to herself, and continued reading the large novel resting in her lap. I sighed. The other part of me wanted to plop into the empty seat next to her, grab her firmly by the hands, and ask what it is she saw. What is it that's so obvious and telling about me? What does she know that I don't? And damnit what book is she reading and does she have any other recommendations?
A surge of quick, pulsating pain coursed through the temples residing on each side of my head. White wine is severely overrated and impractical, I decided then and there. I can understand now why such a large population of people switch to red wine upon their arrival into adulthood. Why choose something light and airy and silky, when there will always be an inevitable headache around the corner? No, if you are going to suffer at the hands of crushed grapes, you might as well choose the sturdiest sister amongst them. Something that grips you. A bitter, rich Cabernet, perhaps. An undeniable concoction of tobacco and licorice and oak. They say a glass of her a day keeps the heart strong and healthy. I say it's worth a shot and the few extra British Pounds in my pocket.
The train slowed to a temporary halt. The mystical traveler gathered her belongings and floated past me, giving one final glance in my direction. She winked. And then she was gone. I shuffled down the aisle and sat in her previously occupied spot. It was still warm. I pulled out a large book of my own: "A Little Life" by Hanya Yanagihara. Ten pages had passed along my finger tips when the train doors whooshed open, letting a cold gust of wind push it's way through along with a younger girl.
She leaned against the railing at the end of the aisle. She wore a plain outfit with short spiky hair and an unamused expression. My eyes scanned her curiously from behind the shield of my glasses. She stared back. I smiled smugly and returned my focus to the next page. The train continued rumbling and whirring forward through time, as it always must. She let out a longing exhale and sat beside me decidedly. "What are you reading?," she enquired softly.