The Wish You Were Here

It's four twenty eight in the morning, and I sit in the cold train station on a ribbed steel bench, my head back against the concrete and my feet tucked under me, knees drawn up to my chest. My reporter's notebook pressed against my legs. I write with my left hand, and it bothers the woman next to me, although my elbow hasn't hit her. Her lips are pressed together in a thin line; she sits upright and stiff, with hawk eyes and hawk hands and a hawk nose. If she were writing to someone like you, she wouldn't look so hollow.