August 10 - First Train

All night, every night for more than six months, like a lottery addict afraid to skip a day because he's sure that'll be the day she wakes up and he won't be there.
The green glow of life sustaining machines, sleep on a bunk fashioned out vinyl cushioned chairs, vending machine coffee on his way out in the morning.
Every night.
The one night he did miss was the longest of his life. Emergency at the office. Just couldn't get away. And when he talked to her doctors the next morning and they assured him that no, she hadn't woken up, what he felt was a sense of relief.
One more reason to hate himself.
The wait for the first train was always the most peaceful part of the day. He was invisible. He'd done all he could do.
Now it was time to go to work.
But first, home. Shower, coffee, change of clothes.
Then work.
Some of the other people on the platform were still up, some were up already. It was easy to tell the difference, but they all had a cell phone in hand.
She was there again that morning.
Ride the same train at the same time every day and you start to recognize people.
She all but collapsed on the seat next to him on the bench.
She took off her heels, and fell asleep almost immediately, hunched over like she'd been shot. Lycra mini skirt. Knees locked together, but legs splayed apart. The candy red toenail polish she was wearing was chipped.
A few other people shuffled in, checked their cell phones.
A recorded announcement said the train was arriving.
A gust of wind blew stray newspapers around and the train whooshed in.
He was about to wake her up, but she woke up on her own.
She got on the train and found a seat. He got on behind her and handed her the shoes she'd left at the bench and she nodded thank you. The doors closed and the train left the station.