Pieces of the Soul

Three Things

The train whistle sounded off to warn us of the departure that will happen soon. I knew I should have left the house much earlier, so I could have relaxed in my seat and watch all the other people rush around to get situated before leaving. But no, I am one of those humans running around out of breath dodging people like they are poles with the mindset of just reaching my seat as fast as I can.

I finally make it to my seat after the long torturous trek through passengers and luggage. My seat is located in one of the compartments in the back of this train, which is fine by me, the farther from the front I am, the less noise I have to deal with. I don't even know how I managed to get these tickets so cheap, the back is considered the best seats to get. Usually businessmen and women, as well as people who are quite well off in their lives, sit in the back. But here I was, my luggage about the same price as some of these peoples ties hoisted up in the baggage compartment.

I turnin my seat and take in my surroundings. The only other thing in this compartment is a worn leather bag the color of soil after it rains. It is about the size of a shoe box and is partially open too. My eyes are drawn to the opening in hopes that I can catch a glimpse of what is in the bag. My hands start itching to unzip it even more. I start sweating with all the work I am enduring to keep from pouncing on the bag and fulfilling my nosiness.

I break eye contact with the temptation to notice that the train has long been out of the city, going the fastest it can to safely get to the destination. The person has not come back yet and I wonder if they are using the facilities, or are hanging out at the bar stationed in the middle of the train. I wait patiently for them to return so they can move their bag out of my sight.

One minutes passes, five minutes after that, now another ten minutes. Finally, after thirty minutes have passed, I pounce on the bag not being able to restrain myself anymore. I open it and see only three things: an Ipod, a journal, and this sketchbook that has a pencil pouch attached to it. Feeling that I have intruded into this person's life far enough, I continue, by opening the journal while turning on the ipod. The journal is owned by someone with nice handwriting; and I have a feeling my compartment partner is a woman. And it contains entries on places she has been and how much fun she had, also places she wants to go and see. She is very bubbly and writes about a bunch of people she looks up to and respects. The journal still has a lot of pages to fill and I hope they are filled with all the things she wanted to do.

The Ipod is on and I go to see what kind of songs it has, but it is locked. Of course it would be locked; why would anyone in this day and age not lock their electronics. I still can't fathom why this person hasn't returned yet. I have come up with the best excuse as well. If they come in while I am holding the bag, I just let them know that I was putting their bag up and the stuff fell out. It's fool proof.

Now the sketchbook is calling my name to open it; there are drawings of scenes, such as mountains and lakes to cartoon people that I think are called manga characters. It was gorgeous to look through. It makes me want to dabble at sketching too. This person seems so nice. Knowing I have looked through the person's stuff enough, I pack it all back up and put the bag in their baggage spot. Just as I sit down the mysterious woman I have come to know through creeping through her things came in. But I was wrong about this person, I didn't know them really at all. Especially since it was a man, and he looked like he just came from his biker gang. I am so happy he didn't catch me looking through his bag. If I looked like that, I probably wouldn't want anyone to know what my guilty pleasures are. My brain still cannot grasp that this burly dude drew pictures and could write like nobody's business.

He sits down in his seat and I start to really take this guy in. He has a thick beard that connects to his just as thick mustache, a leather vest, worn out greasy jeans and hearty black boots that are scuffed up showing the miles they have walked. I notice what he is holding. My face pales as my blood runs cold. I unwillingly blurt out "Hi... um.. what is that?" as I point to what he is holding.

He looks down at the container in his hands with an expression anyone would recognize, and grips it tighter to his chest. He looks back up showing the pain he is in as he says the words that make me feel like the worst person in the world. "My Wife".