The Last Lunch When the train whistle blows, this life will finish. I will be standing by the track with my bag at my feet or I will be on the track with my neck on the rail. On this singular day, the whistle will free me. When the train leaves Upshot, the town at the crest of mountain to the east, the man who beat me last night will be pulling stumps in the field. I can see the field where he sweats and tears at the earth; I will know his pace. When the train comes through the long stone tunnel at the base of the mountain, the whistle blows, and the ribbon of sound comes lightly waving on the breeze. He will hear it and he will stop for the meal wrapped in waxed paper and linen napkins and tied with strings of hate. He will sit under the one big tree he left at the edge of the field, and he will spread out the cheese sandwiches, the red apple slaw and the arsenic pickles. I will stand at the kitchen window with my bag at my feet and I will watch him eat. He will eat the red apple slaw and one sandwich. Then he will eat the arsenic pickles and the other sandwich. Then he will grab his gut and look at the house and he will know that I have killed him. Then I will take my bag and walk to the crossing and raise the red flag. The train will come into the valley, blowing the whistle, announcing the possibility of flight, the promise of other places where voices talk and eyes meet and every touch does not hurt. I will stand by the red flag and I will wait for the train to stop for me while he writhes under the tree and the red ants come to eat the remains of the last cheese sandwich. And he will die. Or he will not. He will bite into the first pickle and spit; he will look up at the house and know that I have failed to kill him. He will stand and move toward the house and I will leave the bag at my feet and run. I will run to the curve of the railroad track and I will lie down at the blind spot where the engineer will never even wonder at the slight sound of a head being severed from a neck bruised with both old and new finger marks. I will escape and there will be nothing left for him to do. For no other woman will come to the valley between the mountains where the train comes once a week, blowing softly, expecting no response.
Posted on: Sat, 14 Sep 2013 12:25:09 +0000