Page 29 of Summer Skate

He puts his hand on my leg, slightly gripping my thigh, and I lean into his shoulder, taking in the smell of his shirt. I put my head against his arm and look out the window, and he pulls my leg slightly toward him, takes it in his hands.

“I don’t understand,” he says.

I sigh. “What?”

“Why would you tell me that I’m going to fuck all these girls, when I only think about fucking you?”

I pause. “That’s true. You don’t understand. We’re in completely different situations. If I left my husband, you’d be happy for five minutes and then you’d be miserable.”

“How do you know? How do you know exactly what would happen?”

“I just know.”

“You don’t love me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

He rubs his face with his hands. “Great.”

A middle-aged blonde woman comes up to us. She is holding the shoulder of her young son, who is wearing shorts and a blue jersey with yellow writing. She appears nervous. I sit up straight. Carter lets go of my leg.

“Sorry to bother you,” she says. “You’re Carter Hughes, right? This is Trevor. He plays under eleven for the Massapequa Penguins.”

“Nice to meet you,” Carter says. “Who’s your favorite NHL player?”

Trevor mumbles something softly. A name I don’t recognize.

“Interesting. Okay. Be careful with this one. Who’s your favorite Ranger?”

The kid thinks for a minute, then smiles. “Matt Rempe,” he says.

Carter laughs. “Well, I hope you have a good practice. Practice hard.”

“It’s just practice,” Trevor says.

The mother rolls her eyes. Carter gets animated.

“No. No . It’s not just practice!” he says. “It’s never just practice! How badly do you want to win?”

The mother and son laugh, thank him, and then leave. Carter turns to me. “Matt Rempe.” He shakes his head. “Kid’s a psycho.”

This station stop: Westhampton. This station stop: Westhampton. Next stop: Remsenburg-Speonk .

There is momentary silence between us. I pull my knees up to my chest, smoothing my skirt on the sides, wrapping my arms around my legs.

I look out the window. He sighs and then turns to me.

I look at him. I put my feet back down on the ground.

He grabs my face and starts kissing me. He pushes me back against the side of the train, until I can feel the cold of the window on the back of my head.

“We really shouldn’t be doing this,” I whisper, my eyes half closed. “What if somebody sees us?”

“Do you recognize anyone on this train car?”

I look around. “No.”

“So then?”

He moves his face closer to mine. I look around one more time, then pull him toward me by his T-shirt, by the sides of his body.

Soon, we are fully making out, my legs intertwined with his. His hands are up the sides of my bare legs, playing with the edge of my skirt, feeling underneath it.

This station stop: Remsenburg-Speonk. This station stop: Remsenburg-Speonk. Next stop: Mastic-Shirley .

Some drunk kids get on the car. They are talking about a concert they’re going to. It’s going to be sick, man. SICK. We’re going to have the sickest night . They break out a tin of tobacco. I can hear them snap it. They start head banging to Metallica. Give me fuel, give me fire . . .

They are laughing at us, but we can’t break apart for anything. His hands are fully under my skirt now, running his fingers under the seam of my underwear.

“Let’s fuck,” he whispers in my ear, and then kisses my cheek.

“Come on. One last time.” He touches the wetness between my legs, through my underwear, then pushes the underwear aside, puts his fingers inside of me.

I gasp as quietly as I can, into his ear, then dig my face into the side of his neck, my best attempt at hiding.

I touch the back of his head with my hand and look into his eyes. “I’m not fucking on a train,” I whisper, but I can’t push him away. I can’t tell him to stop what he’s doing.

“Who said anything about a train? Let’s just get a hotel in Babylon or something . . . ”

I laugh. “Oh, I’m sure that would be lovely.”

He kisses my neck. “ Please . Come on.”

“No . . . no.”

“I need to fuck you one more time.”

“It’s enough. Enough,” I say, putting my head on his chest and my hands under the back of his shirt.

“One more time and then it’ll be enough,” he says.

My eyes narrow at him. “Do you think so?”

He shakes his head no.

The drunk kids start hollering. One of them has a particularly loud cackle that he keeps doing, just to mess with us.

“Oh, would you please shut the fuck up?” I yell at the kids.

One replies: “We’re not going to shut up just because some slut asks us to.”

Carter stands up. “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Let’s maybe take it down a notch, fellas.”

“ You two take it down a notch!” he yells back. Carter sits down.

“You know something?” I say, laughing. “They’re right.”

We’re getting closer to the city. It’s time to get it together. I clear the stray hairs from in front of my face, my mouth, put them behind my ears.

This station stop: Mastic-Shirley. This station stop: Mastic-Shirley. Next stop: Sayville .

A man and a woman get on in matching clothes and start doing a song-and-dance number. They perform something from an opera, then morph into a bad version of Frank Sinatra. They go around asking for money.

I say to Carter: “They should give us money for listening.”

He laughs. “Tell them that.”

“I’m not going to tell them that!”

“Tell them that you never asked for their song.”

“You know, you can’t just say whatever you want to people. We live in a society.”

“You care way too much about what other people think.”

“Maybe you care too little.”

This station stop: Sayville. This station stop: Sayville. Next stop: Bellville .

I look out the window, where I can see some houses but mostly trees. You can see almost nothing of these towns from the train. We start making out again, and I am beyond annoyed by the existence of clothes.

This station stop: Bellville. This station stop: Bellville. Next stop: Bayport .

A young girl gets on. She’s talking on the phone. She just got into a huge fight with her mom. She’s loudly describing how she’s going to the city without her. She calls her dad to say: You won’t believe what Mom just did . She is upset, on the verge of tears.

“I feel so bad,” I say. “Someone should talk to her. Should I talk to her?”

“Talk to her?”

“Yeah. I fight with my mom all the time. I know exactly what to say.”

“Do not get involved with this random person.”

“But her mom sounds terrible!”

“It seems like she knows that.”

This station stop: Bayport. This station stop: Bayport. Next stop: Islip .

A guy gets on the train and sits across from us. He starts shaving right there in his seat, throwing shaving cream onto the floor.

“Ugh. Gross,” Carter says. “Is he serious?”

I wince. “Maybe he’s a homeless guy going to see his family who he hasn’t seen in a long time and he’s trying to make a good impression.”

He laughs. “That’s quite a web you’re weaving.”

This station stop: Islip. This station stop: Islip. Next stop: Babylon .

Babylon is the first station where you can see the outside world.

You can see the town. The station is across the street from a high school, a large brick building.

You can see the football field. This station stop: Babylon.

This station stop: Babylon. Next stop: Hicksville .

After Babylon, the landscape changes to real suburbia.

There are strip malls. It feels like we are finally entering the realm of reality.

This station stop: Hicksville. This station stop: Hicksville. Next stop: Mineola . With every stop, there are bigger crowds coming onto the train. It’s clear that we are into the suburban commuter towns.

The city is close.

I feel a sense of sadness in my eyes before I feel it anywhere else. A tingly sensation between my eyes, implying future pain that will be much worse.

How many stops are left? This isn’t good.

This station stop: Mineola. This station stop: Mineola. Next stop: Jamaica .

Jamaica is a searing pain to my chest. It went by so quickly. It all went by so quickly. What rolls over me at the exact same time is relief and sadness and the realization that I’ll never do it all again.

Jamaica. Trains to Penn Station, Track 1. Next train to Grand Central, Track 2. Atlantic Terminal, Track 7 .

Almost the entire train empties out at Jamaica.

We walk up the stairs and to the next set of tracks over, then go down the stairs.

There are hordes of people waiting on the other track.

We maneuver our way through them. My plan was to stop kissing him now.

But there are so many people and our bodies are so close.

I kiss him quickly, and then look down. “I love you,” I say.

“Oh god, please don’t do this to me,” he whispers back.

The front of the train blows by us. We get on.

Next stop is Penn Station.

There’s nowhere to sit, so we stand in the middle of the car. People bump into us and our bodies come together and we try not to lose it. He is holding my hand. His other hand is grazing my hip. We’re standing so close and there are so many people that none of this can be seen by anyone.

We get off the train at Penn Station and walk together up into the light, the dimming afternoon light on Eighth Avenue, where we are slowly following the crowd of people in backpacks, shuffling by us on all sides.

On the street, horns are blaring. There is a long line of people waiting for taxis.

There are greetings and goodbyes all around us.

We are not used to being surrounded by this many people. We are moving at a glacial speed.

I look around at Penn Station and Madison Square Garden. I hold my arms out. “This is your new home. I mean . . . office. How cool is that? I’ll be watching.” I point my finger at him. “Don’t disappoint me.”

He shakes his head at the ground.

“This can’t be it. We’re never going to see each other again? I don’t believe you.”