The Girl on the Train Page #2

were nonfiction.

That would be

cynicism?

You think just because something

really happens, it isn't fiction?

I was pretty sure this wasn't your

average girl on the commuter line.

She give you

any personal details?

She had a way of turning

your questions around.

You thought you were talking about her, but

you were really just talking about yourself.

Why were you crying?

You tell me.

I get to make it

whatever I want?

Sure.

Okay.

Seven years ago, you met

a man on this very train.

You got to talking, but you never

exchanged more than first names.

He gets off at Poughkeepsie.

As he steps onto the platform, you realize

you should have gotten off with him.

He was the guy. He was your one

chance to escape the wheel.

But the train's already moving.

You've missed your chance.

So you spend weeks looking through

the Poughkeepsie directory,

but you've only got

his first name.

Which is?

Bob, unfortunately.

If only it were

Zebediah.

You call every one of the 373

Roberts, Bobs and Bobbys.

- I would never call a Bobby.

- With no luck.

But every day for seven years,

you buy your ticket,

you get on the train,

take it to Poughkeepsie,

and then you turn back

and head home alone.

Next stop will be Westport.

Westport Station in two minutes.

That is such a guy story.

Yeah?

I wouldn't spend that much time tracking

someone down if they murdered my mother.

So you're really

not gonna tell me?

You know, the difference

between trains and planes is,

on a train, if you don't like

the conversation,

you can change

your seat.

Or get off

at the next stop.

Shouldn't ask

for your number then?

Let me see your hand.

You gonna tell

my fortune?

That's easy.

You'll know moments of joy. You'll

lose what you love. You'll die.

Can I get a second opinion?

The other thing

about trains is,

you get to see the world

passing in real time.

When you're eight miles up,

you can convince yourself...

you're still the same person

when you get off.

So, a million questions

without a questioner,

a hundred replayed nights.

How do I find myself

in this sweaty bed?

Who is this person

beside me?

Why are there more scars

than I remember wounds?

Right. Memory is flawed.

But isn't memory all that knits our moments

of existence into a sense of self?

Of course, philosophical

questions lose power...

when you're staring

at your own mortality.

It's one thing to know you're

going to die at some point...

in the indeterminate future,

another to watch

the clock wind down.

And, yeah, I'm not

the only dead guy in the room.

So you went back

to work?

I had to finish

the project.

But now you had a name.

There were no Lexi's

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