The Girl on the Train Page #4

away with her sad lottery ticket.

He would rather let her live in

the purity of his imagination...

than succumb to the spectacle of

flesh and blood, scent and sorrow.

He's lost something, sure...

Another conquest, maybe even

an enduring relationship.

But think what he gets

in return.

He will forever be the man who

waited in the snow and rain...

day after day

for the lottery girl.

He will be the one

who walked away...

at the moment

his dream was realized.

He will be mythic.

You want to know

what really happens?

Sure.

He's out of that

coffee shop so fast,

he sloshes his half-caf latte

on his hand, extra hot.

He almost knocks her over, they strike up

a conversation, and they begin dating.

Two kids and a summer home

in Montauk?

Lasted eight months. "It's not

you, it's me." That kind of thing.

What? Don't be smug.

He gave it a shot.

My version

would've lasted forever.

Now I know your secret.

Didn't know I had one.

You'd rather have a great story

than a great love.

You didn't think it was odd

running into her like that?

I guess I wasn't

thinking at all.

What?

I haven't quite figured out

if you're a victim or a suspect.

Well, I suppose you could pretty

much say that about anyone.

And the lottery ticket?

She won.

You try to find me?

There are no Lexi's

in Westport.

I didn't say

I lived in Westport.

You gotta give a guy

a fair chance.

I found you, didn't I?

You look different.

Different day.

What color was your hair?

Here's the thing about two

people meeting on a train.

If they know they'll

always be strangers,

it frees them.

You can create me any way you

want, and I'll never disappoint.

I could ask you to kill for me, and I

won't know if you'll carry it out.

We have no reason

to lie to each other...

unless the lie

is prettier than the truth.

We're no longer

on the train.

No?

How did you find me?

Don't tell me you're one of those New Age

types who don't believe in accidents.

You're not gonna ask me

to kill someone, are you?

Why don't you

show me what you do.

Can I get you

a pain pill for that?

Actually, the pain

helps me remember.

Sisters at Saint Jude's

would agree with you.

Catholic school?

You bet.

Her patron saint.

I held the cross

under my tongue...

until there was

a bloody sore.

I ate with it...

like that.

I slept with it.

Eventually the pain fades

and the callous appears.

My father only made it

a few weeks.

One morning

he refused to work,

and they beat him to death

with their rifles.

Bullets were too expensive.

When I was young, my mother used to

tell me this story when things got bad.

"The world ended when Jesus

hung on the cross," she'd say.

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes