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“What’s the first thing you’ll do,” August asks, “when you get back to ’77?”
“I don’t know,” Jane says. “Try to catch that bus to California, I guess.”
“You should. I bet California misses you.”
Jane nods. “Yeah.”
“You know,” August says, “if this works, by now you’ll be almost seventy.”
Jane pulls a face. “Oh my God, that’s so weird.”
“Oh yeah.” August gazes up at the tunnel ceiling. “I bet you have a house, and it’s filled with souvenirs from all over the world because you spent your thirties backpacking through Europe and Asia. Windchimes everywhere. Nothing matches.”
“The furniture is nice and sturdy, but I never take care of the yard,” Jane puts in. “It’s a jungle. You can’t even see the front door.”
“The homeowners’ association hates you.”
Jane chuckles. “Good.”
August lets a quiet moment go by before adding, carefully, “I bet you’re married.”
In the low light, she can see Jane’s smile dip downward, a corner of her mouth tugging. “I don’t know.”
“I hope you are,” August says. “Maybe some girl finally came along at the right time, and you married her.”
Jane shrugs, pursing her lips. The dimple pops out on one side.
“She’s gonna have to live with the fact that I’ll always wish she were someone else.”
“Come on,” August says. “That’s not fair. She’s a nice lady.”
Jane looks up and rolls her eyes, but her mouth relaxes. She rests her hands on the rail and cranes her head back.
“What if I stay?” she says. “What’s the first thing you’ll do?”
There are a thousand things August could say, a thousand things she wants to do. Sleep next to her. Buy her lunch at the jerk chicken joint across the street. Brighton Beach. Prospect Park. Kiss her with the door shut.
But she says simply, “Take you home with me.”
Before Jane can respond, a flashlight beam cuts through the darkness at the city hall end of the tunnel. Jane’s head whips around.
“Hey! Who’s in there?” a gruff voice shouts. “Get the fuck out of the tunnel!”
“Fuckin’ pigs,” Jane says, jumping up and scattering orange peel everywhere. “Run!”
They run back through the tunnel toward Canal Street, Jane stumbling in the rush but never losing her balance on the third rail, and at some point near the fork, they start laughing. Loud, breathless, incredulous, hysterical laughter, filling up the tracks and pulling at August’s lungs as she struggles toward their line. When they reach the Q, there’s a train just pulling out of the station, and Jane takes a running jump and grabs the handle on the back of the last car.
“Come on!” she yells, turning back for August’s hand. August grabs on and lets Jane’s strong grip pull her up.
“Is this our thing?” Jane shouts over the rattle of the train as it carries them toward Brooklyn. “Kissing between subway cars?”
“You haven’t kissed me yet!” August points out.
“Oh, right,” Jane says. She brushes August’s windswept hair out of her face, and when their lips meet, she tastes like oranges and lightning.
August stays on the train late into the night, until the cars start to clear out and the timetable stretches longer and longer. She waits for the magic hour, and from the way Jane drags her hand along her waist, she’s waiting too.
There’s no convenient darkness this time, no perfectly timed stall, but there’s an empty car and the Manhattan Bridge and Jane pressing into her, hips moving and short breaths and kiss-slick lips. It should feel dirty, to be with Jane like this, here, but what’s crazy is, she finally understands it all. Love. The whole shape of it. What it means to touch someone like this and want to have a life with them at the same time.
