Nos encontramos en el andén south de la estación Eglinton West. Elegimos horas pico, así las probabilidades de subir en un vagón atiborrado aumentan exponencialmente. Abordamos casi como extrañas, apenas cruzamos la mirada brevemente para cerciorarnos de la proximidad de nuestros cuerpos no sea interrumpida por un tercero. Con el andar del tren, empieza el cachondeo. Nuestras pelvis se unen, se mecen al ritmo que marcan los rieles. Los otros tripulantes, absortos en sus periódicos o libros de texto, enviando mensajes por el teléfono celular o jugando algún juego bobo si es que han perdido la señal, parecen no notar nuestro forcejeo sexual. Leanne respira agitada y muy cerca de mi oido. Puedo escuchar sus gemidos mezclados con el rechinar de los frenos. Bajamos en la estación Bloor-Yonge, donde salimos a la superficie y caminamos con los rostros enrojecidos por la excitación, tratando de ahogar las risillas que amenazan salirse del abrazo de las bufandas. Nos acercamos al edificio de Leanne, en el que nos internaremos para seguir con lo que hemos empezado en el Subway.

Photos by Craig James White

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Sometimes I’m tempted to ask if you remember me. “Remember what?”, you must think. Is there anything for you to remember? No. Not yet. But on this side of the bridge, time is funny. I saw objects running around, along with people and places. It all moved so fast that I began to run myself just so I could catch up. Then something strange happened: when I stood still, I could hear the flood before it even smelled of coming rain.

When I met you, I recognized you from instant one. I could feel the fire burning before we even caught flame. That’s why I fled the scene. Falling into you scared me as much as I feared never finding you again. It turns out I didn’t run fast enough. Or maybe I got mixed up and instead of away, I headed straight to you. I found myself at your doorstep, but you had shut yourself away from me. I still stand at your door. My knuckles are numb from the knocking. The memories keep coming back in the form of dreams. I dream of shelves heavy with the movies you date and file once you are done watching them. Discs heavy with images and sounds that technology allows to resonate with our long conversations and equally long but silent walks. I dream of holding your hands on a train and of your hands holding this paper. I dream the trees that walk by you each morning. I dream the moonlight tracing patterns on your body through rain-washed windows. I dream of old roads and huge rivers, dream of seas small and raging on your navel. I dream of maps and photos of our journeys through strange geographies. There is only one thing that never happens in my dreams. It puzzles me. It despairs me. Your door never opens. Will it ever? Maybe it shouldn’t. This way, we remain seeds, breaths, longing and shadows. One more story that’s doomed to be told because it never happened.