Last updated on 8 December 2020
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I sit alone, minding my own business. My focus buried in a book. The guy clomps nearby and drops heavily into a seat across from me. I ignore the impulse to drop my book and look over at him though it’s hard. I feel drawn to his shuffling. He sighs in a way that people do to draw attention. I use the book for a shield and look around. There is no one else here. Only me. And him.
He sighs again and drags his shoes across the floor. My concentration is blown. I lower my book.
He is well dressed in a black tux that shines like onyx with the whitest shirt I have ever seen. I almost miss the tie but it, too, is pure white. His cuffs and collar are as sharp as razors. He is angular as an axe. He stares with blue translucent eyes.
“So, I’m here,” he says. My uncertain look prompts him.
“I’m here,” he says again.
“Yes, you are,” I say.
“So what do you want?” he says.
I look around again. I am irritated with this odd circumstance.
“I didn’t ask for you.”
His look pierces me and I have to look away. He pulls a cigarette from the inside of his jacket and unveils the lighter in his other hand. He is precise in his movements. It’s as if everything he does has purpose.
“There’s no smoking here,” I say. My irritation slides into nervousness.
“Oh, yeah? Who says? You?”
I sit up and lean a little forward. I try for a serious, parental look.
“Seeing as you and I are the only ones here, well, yes, I ‘says’.”
He puts away the cigarette and his lighter and mutters something for effect. He looks up at the ceiling and then back down at me. I finger pages of my book and debate whether to start reading again.
“I came here because you called me,” he says.
“No I didn’t,” I say.
Again he is silent. He looks at the ceiling. This time he shifts in his chair. He has a kind of disturbed edginess that you see in people in a hurry in the grocery line or in a traffic jam. He furrows his brow. But his forehead remains an unbroken palette of skin, like silicone. There are no wrinkles.
“What do you want from me?” I say. My chest tightens. My breath is short.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he says. He gets up and paces unevenly in front of me. There is a gentle rocking back and forth and he eventually slides into a smooth rhythm.
He is taller than I thought; his tux is fixed to his body like skin. Every crease is sharp. There is not a soft line anywhere.
“Okay, so maybe you don’t know that you wanted me.” He looks at me again while he paces. “We aren’t always so sure of what we’re thinking, are we now?
I lean back and in a bluff, fold my arms across my chest. I try to look skeptical.
“See, I’m getting to you.” He slows his pacing. He looks like he wants to smoke.
“Who are you?” I am desperately wishing for my stop.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he says again. His teeth in his smile are perfectly smooth. White like the icy crust on snow.
I look around again, hoping for some distraction. Some outlet. Some way of getting away from this character.
It’s quiet for a moment and I feel the click-clack rhythm of the train. There is a beat that rises from the tracks up into my seat and into my body.
“I,” he says, “am a feeling.” He chuckles.
“You,” I say, “are whacked,” though I sense he is not as crazy as he appears.
Then I know. He smiles and points at me with an arrow for a finger.
Suddenly the knowing runs down my throat into my gut. He is not real and he is at the same time. I don’t know why I have never actually seen him like this but somehow I have always been aware of him.
The times when life felt off and I wasn’t sure why, he was there. When I hurt because I understand the damage I have done to my children by the choices I make, he was there. When I realize what I was doing was wrong or weak or lazy, he is always there. He has been the voice in my head. When I was indifferent or mean, he was hitting me in the ribs.
Now he is holding an unlit cigarette and a lighter as he stands in front of the train car’s doorway.
“You think you’re done with me?” He grins, his chin a square rock pointed at me. His eyes are suddenly the color of slate and remind me of the underside of a cloud.
The train slows and stops and the doors whoosh open. He steps through the doorway.
“Hey, wait,” I say. “What is your name?”
But I know.
He is on the platform now and he turns. He is lighting his cigarette. There is still no one around.
Again he smiles his perfect white smile.
“Guilt,” he says. “My name is Guilt.”
The doors close and the train starts moving. I watch him slide away in a rush of the train’s windows.
