We thought the train was romantic. The backbone of the country. No better way to travel across it. We imagined the people we might meet. In the dining car, in the narrow halls. What stories they’d tell. How their lives would be so much bigger than our own. How we’d hang on their every word and then sit quietly when they were done talking. Contemplating.
How we’d spend days not leaving our cabin. Reading or sleeping or just looking out the window. Or we’d pull the blinds and sit in the dark, vibrating, and wonder just where we were now.