Isabel Rhoten

I got on the wrong train. I got off after I realized. I waited with an anxious foot. I forgot to breathe. The right train came eventually. I got on. I thought about my grandma. I felt guilty. I thought about the man sitting across from me, the way he rubbed his pointer finger against his thumb. His shoes were black, worn, neatly laced. The tops of them were lost under his long jeans. He wore a backpack. We never spoke. I could not see the color of his eyes. He reminded me of a painting of a man. The train stopped. I got off. Still, I thought about the man. I wondered, Does he ever get on the wrong train? The thought preoccupied me. What is it that decides a train’s wrongness? Walking home, I imagined myself in a museum, shuffling through the many rooms. I thought about what it would be like to see the man in a frame on the wall. And underneath him on a plaque a printed label: Untitled, 2024, Oil on canvas, or words to that effect. By the time I got home I realized I was still inside the train. I called my grandma. Her voice was breathy. I said how are you. She said nothing’s wrong. Nothing, I thought. For once I thought about nothing and then I remembered to breathe.