Paris vs. New York: The NYC Vintage Train

Ever since I lived in Paris, I've wanted to write a short story about a lonely young woman waiting on an empty metro platform at some indeterminate time in the middle of the night.  She'd be standing there on wobbly heels, a forgotten Le Figaro rolled up in her hand, her mind wandering hungrily as she gazed into the tunnel, waiting for a headlight to pierce the darkness.  

And then, with a swoosh of stale air, an old train would silently pull up in front of her, the doors opening onto compartments filled with people waiting just for her.  She'd know instinctively that one step into the train would mean figuring out everything she needed to, no matter how long the journey took.  

There'd be singing and dancing and endless talking, and fragile silences as the train shuddered around bends.  The compartment would be filled with wise women with old eyes and knowing smiles and little children the could appear and disappear as they ran about.  

She'd never get hungry, she'd never get tired, but by the time the train pulled into her station, she'd have sorted everything out, and her heels wouldn't be so wobbly as she stepped back onto the platform.  

It turns out that I had an experience that remarkably resembled this hypothetical short story that's been beating around my mind for years.  So much so, that I experienced a few moments of stomach-churning disbelief as the NYC vintage train pulled into Queens Plaza on Sunday afternoon.  One step into the train...

Perhaps my lives in Paris and New York aren't so far removed after all.
~Mersydotes