Cold is a state of mine

The train rushed over the tracks while the sun broke rhythmically through sparse clouds, paralyzed like cottonweed in the frigid hours of a mid-December afternoon. On my table sat a cup of hot tea and some warmed bread, serving to relax me as I sat upright with the back of my head pressed against leather. My favored coach, #49, appeared virtually empty. My compartment was built to accommodate four; I was a solitary traveler in an empty booth.

The fluid countryside streamed by the window and a coat of snow, freshly fallen from the midmorning storm, still covered those stretches of field that remained in shadow. The bare treetops glittered and the sun exposed the colors of caramel and wheat where it touched down upon the earth. My window was warm; I pressed my left cheek against it and closed my eyes.

The two-hour journey by train was familiar to me, as I traveled often between my villa in the farmlands of Sheridan and the low-lying office building in Canterville. My intentions were to take a week off for relaxation, to keep my feet elevated and candles lit, to bask in the glory of a new winter landscape away from the paperwork and calendar precision that defined my daily life.

I smiled at the conductor as he approached and clipped the end of my ticket. He wore a shortly groomed beard and had warm black eyes that drank me in like cocoa.

"Thank you," he said with a slow brush of his fingers against the brim of his hat, saluting. "I'll ring for some more tea for you."

"That'd be nice, thanks."

My eyes darted back and forth, surveying the coach, and then I fixed my gaze again out the window to consider intently the varying speeds at which the landscape passed. I dabbed a drip of spilt tea from my sweater with a fine maroon napkin—embroidered with a golden "49"—and was startled to hear a commotion coming from the rear of the coach. The muffled growls of an obviously dissatisfied man were unmistakable, as were the timid and more hushed tones of a woman's voice in return. Straining my neck in an unnatural contortion I attempted to see whence this fuss had originated, but was obstructed by the partial dividing walls that protruded from either side of the coach's center, leaving its posterior a curtained enigma.

Moments later the disturbance had subsided. I sat myself upright, picked up the book I'd been avoiding and resumed an apathetic daze studying its pages, until something altogether different drew my attention. A hustling form stormed daintily down the center walkway in a whirlwind of swirling skirt and a look of apparent frustration. Her form demanded the swift removal of my eyes from their bookside position and I stared her down wondrously as she passed. She had blonde unraveled curls that swept just over her neck and shoulders into petite, tufted ends of upturned exactitude. Her white skirt—envy of winter!—was slightly, elegantly puffed at the waist, and she strode so stormily in shoes fragile enough to disintegrate with a step. Her face was positioned away from me, obscured. I was immediately intrigued to know more of her, and I shut my book hastily so that I might observe her hurried destination.

She sought the end of the cabin that faced me, where she took seat with an older woman who'd been sitting alone; a conversation immediately began between them. Both women spoke and gestured about frantically, not quite audible over the clockwork clacking of the train. After several minutes of discussion the two women embraced briefly, and the girl who'd caught my attention sat back looking defeated.

With this, my passage had become momentously more entertaining, for I now had a subject with which to pursue the fancies of my supplanted boredom. Smiling, I leaned crooked against the window and folded my arms, keeping watch over the cabin. A female attendant arrived with a fresh cup of tea. I thanked her and she moved on without unpursing her inexpressive lips.

It was about this time that my girl stood again and began walking back, retracing the steps of her original flight. As her gait increased and the space between us closed, I was able to make out her face.

I was smitten the moment I saw her: the glow that clouded her movements, the way her lips pouted in ostensible disdain, chin tipped barely upward, an air of disregard billowing about her like fine ash from a chimney, neat blonde hair still flowing in those delicately curled piles as I had seen them only moments before.

In a rather brash, and rare, display of confidence, I put my leg partially into the aisle, as a blockade—looking as if I meant a schoolboy trick and planned to knock her down—but it was merely a gesture to necessitate her attention. This maneuver was impossible for me to prevent, as the faculties of my mind had ceased to function properly and were then operating solely upon the instinctual forces of impulse and the hope of creating a fate that barred premeditation.

And work it did. At least, it garnered her attention, as well it should have. She stopped, turning her notice toward me with silent acknowledgement. The look upon her face alone told me that, although intended innocently, this behavior would most likely not be tolerated.

"I couldn't help but notice…" I began, stuttering foolishly and pausing to try and regain a sliver of composure, "…that you seemed to be going through some amount of difficulty, and I was wondering if you wouldn't mind joining me for a cup of this deliciously complimentary tea to talk it over?"

It ended up coming out more like a statement than a question, and I'm not quite sure she even knew a proper response.

Indeed, she must not have known, for she simply continued on without a reply, in a sort of completely artificial ignorance as to my existence.

What shock! Marked by my own congeniality! Made fool by my own sensitivity! Or perhaps it was the candid and intrusive nature of my inquiry that merited such a terse response. Whichever, she had had quite enough of something, and was glad to be traipsing back once again to the rear of the coach. I sighed. Ah, fate. In so brief a time I had let my imagination run rampant, savoring wildly the face of a beautiful creature, only to then immediately encounter a crushing blow to deflate my puffed heart.

Letting out a long, anxious sigh that blew the rushing adrenaline back into its stores for later use, I again lounged in my seat and checked my watch. It was 2:45 – hour and a half until arrival. I could make use of that excess time by resting, or by dwelling on the fact that I needed a more tactful display of intelligent conversation to use in informal settings. Thoughts wandering, my eyes fluttered shut.

... ...

A gentle nudge against my right hip straightened me from the depths of near-slumber. As I jolted alert, I was surprised to realize I was no longer sitting alone. The young girl had apparently sat exactly beside me while I was drifting off, and was now staring at her clasped hands atop the table.

"I'm sorry for my rudeness earlier. I'm quite flustered to say the least." Her sweet voice came out quickly and entered like a firestorm into my eardrums, bouncing across bone and tissue, unraveling hair-like structures until they stopped prematurely at some indeterminate crossroads in my brain and there remained, synapses stranded, calls unanswered.

I stared vacantly.

"I'm Genevieve." She held out her hand. I took it.

"Hello. Genevieve." I stated, hesitantly. "You can call me Finn." I cleared my throat. My eyes were stuck, unable to look directly at her.

"I can call you Finn?" She smiled casually. I thought I may have caught the glimmer of a wink, but it may well have been a creation all my own. "You see," she began, "it's just that my parents don't get along at all. At all! They bicker and fight like schoolchildren, they won't even sit anywhere near each other whenever we're out. So when I'm along, I end up commuting between them, back and forth, up and down—their personal messenger—while they take their frustration with each other out on me! It's ridiculous!"

Her voice peaked in intensity before she broke off, preventing her emotions from betraying her. She cradled her forehead with one arm, propped on the table.

"I should be quieter; I would rather that neither of them hears me complaining. My father is especially cantankerous today."

I forced my vocal cords to loosen. "I assume that he," I motioned to the rear, "is your father, and she," reversing the direction of my arm, "is your mother?"

"Correct. What incredible intuition!"

"Ah, yes. Well, I'm quite sorry to hear of all this. Sadly, both of my parents have already passed. And they got along rather amicably I'm afraid, so at this moment I'm suffering from a terrible bout of being unable to relate."

"Is that so? Well in that case I'll just be on my way." She made as if to get up into the aisle.

I panicked a bit and shifted myself toward her as she rose. My fingertips touched her upper arm. "I was only joking."

She looked back at me with a grin. "That I knew! I was only curious to see if it made any difference to you." Her smile!

"Well if that's the case, it does. Please, sit back down. "

She did. "Which is your stop?" she asked.

"Sheridan, the 4:15. I'm heading home after a week that's left me about as empty as an overturned bottle on a Saturday evening. Which is yours?"

"Marcus. We're visiting my aunt and uncle who we've not seen in the last decade. On my mother's side—of course, that's partially what's gotten my father into his current mood. They've spoken hardly a word to him in all their years of acquaintance. Due to a number of factors," she began counting them off on her fingers, "the grand distances separating us, my father's stubbornness and gruff demeanor—which he is not afraid to show others, and the fact that this particular aunt and uncle are obnoxiously wealthy and my father believes that it's held over his head anytime he's not around."

I paid little attention to the family relationships. "So Marcus is the 3:30."

"Yes."

"Oh, so soon! And we've barely just met! Well then, tell it all to me, fill me up with your angst and worries, I've plenty of time to spare."

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not actually. At least not more than I've already admitted. Sometimes it’s just nice to shift the subject, you know, to free the space in the mind that's been preoccupied with wasted thoughts for far too long. Why don't you tell me about Sheridan, or we can just enjoy the passing scenery, something along those lines? Either way, I'm already glad to have met you, Finn."

This was said with sincere kindness, and the affection that I perceived in her face was more than enough to thaw out the rest of my frozen heart, relating to my toes that sensation of sitting too close to the wood stove after a long day spent slogging through snow in half-eaten boots that leave one waterlogged and frostbitten.

"Alright then, let's have a look," I agreed, and we both turned our faces in unison to watch the beauty blooming beyond the railway.

In this manner we enjoyed each other's company for some time, occasionally contributing a remark of wit or some interesting minor aspect of our lives. I figured that as long as we continued to reside in our affable good nature, there'd be plenty of time to later exchange points of contact, thus ensuring further communication.

After fifteen minutes or so of that casualness, I determined to endear the fair Genevieve with my always-outstanding personality, and entered into doing so with blundering conversation.

"If I remember correctly, the town of Marcus has seen a slight downfall in population over the course of the last few years, if that's any consolation for your problematic aunt and uncle…" I started before sputtering out with the memory of her insistence on leaving the matter alone.

But I picked right back up. "Never mind that then! Say, did we ever ring for tea for the two of us? Wasn't that the grounds for my original invitation?" I purposefully perked my voice.

"Why we haven't!" She said. "Let's make sure to pull the conductor aside at his next passage."

Now, the utter oddity and horror in what followed still affects me to this day and serves as a constant testament to the complete lack of valor that I possess.

"Genevieve! I'd like to see you at once!" The muffled voice of her father rose up and over our heads, swirling about in its black magicked waywardness as it weaved a spell that must have surprised even fate itself. He somehow managed to sound both calming and unnerving at the same time, and Genevieve looked at me haggardly as she stood.

"I'd better see what he needs."

I took her hand in my weak, nervous grip. "Isn't there something you can do? Stand up to him? Ignore him?"

This statement was apparently uncalled for. "He's my father," she retorted. "What else is there to do? But please, don't go anywhere. I'll return shortly," she said as she turned and headed back to appease the old goat.

And those were the last words we ever exchanged.

I watched as her father took her hand in a gentle motion while he opened the center door that led into #50, the adjoining coach, and stole her off into oblivion.

This obviously startled me, and I hastened around to see what had become of Genevieve's mother. Her seat was likewise deserted. What had happened? Had she too switched coaches? Had she somehow drifted past me to accompany her despised husband and lovely daughter, while I was none the wiser? Was this due to Genevieve's social interactions with a complete stranger? My day had quickly decomposed into a heap of confusion.

I resolved to wait it out; after all, she had vowed to return and would live by that pledge! Besides, I had not yet asked her for her address, purposefully intending to do so once we had spent a few more moments together. It seemed there had been plenty of time before she was to leave the train. My watch showed 3:20. Time had proceeded at a lively pace just to spite me, and her stop would arrive in ten minutes.

In that same lonely compartment I remained and observed in misery as Marcus unraveled before me. After the train rolled to a halt, I pushed up against the window and watched as the heart of winter itself, the glorious daughter of a ridiculous, bitter couple of foolish old animals, disembarked from the train and was arm in arm with her red-faced father, while her mother converged upon them from two coaches' distance down, nose held high enough to suffocate the fog.

Genevieve looked back not once, but three times toward my window, while her father kept her arm snugly in his and nudged her slowly forward, and I—fool of fools!—prepared a vacant, soulless stare. All I could manage was to lay my fumbling palm on the window's surface and breathe hot gasps of breath where condensation should have circled. My feet were rooted in the train's underbelly; no avalanche could have moved me. The clanking beneath started up again as the train fired and started. My sallow cheeks halted the movement of my eyelids, leaving me presumably looking as lifeless as I felt.

A faint whistle screeched and cried somewhere off in that luscious countryside. My palm on the window—a place where the fading sun's warmth was welcome not even an hour prior—became pained with the chill of the frozen earth surrounding me, in that same dry ice that wakes the windswept mountain peaks. But this was all routine for me: the cold, the abandonment, the feelings of impotence and self-pity. It's been a state of mine for as long as I can remember. Cold has always been a state of mine.