The part-time commuter

Sometimes she takes the commuter train to make herself feel better. She spends an hour each morning on her Benny and Hizzen dress, French twist and brown mascara, but whenever she arrives at work, her efforts never seem to make a bit of difference. There is always someone younger, looking scrumptious in a Nicole Miller with hair tied in a small knot. Whenever it gets to be too much, she winks at Harley, her chauffeur, who passes her the gray, calf-length raincoat stored in the trunk and meets her at the station on the other end of town.

The first ten minutes of the ride always surprise her. No one recognizes her as Laura, the sexual matron from the Quiet Hours soap opera, and unlike her rare trips to the grocery store or Nordstrom, she is left alone. But then she looks at the brief cases and the laptops and remembers that these travelers work during her daytime performance and she begins to relax.

She observes the gentleman to her left who is taking notes as he holds his Blackberry. On the seat next to him, his Toshiba is resting open to Word, and she can hear him murmur numbers every now again as he loosens his tie. She notices the redhead who is wearing a Wal-Mart vest, reading an English literature anthology and tapping her foot faster than the train could possibly travel. She sees the haggard man who has the New York Times open to the business section and who is concentrating so hard she is sure he will give himself a headache.

And she breathes in and out and thanks the powers that be that she gets to return to her set in the morning, where Vanna, Dot and Kyle, her three trusty make-up artists, will paint her face for her next scene with Richard – her character’s younger lover – and she will once again disappear into a fantasy world where she has the power to do what none of these travelers can: escape reality.