Dear Jessica,
I'm thinking back to our train ride and what sort of regrets I might live with having not hopped off in Portland. I don't know how long I can bear living in separate places, another winter in Seattle will leave me without any light. These little weekends away, exploring each stop of the Amtrak line are like a summer dream. But as the days start to get shorter, the longing grows stronger. Unbearable. At least we have this.
Getting on the train in Eugene was reprieve—being in transit has always been our favorite part. Out of the heat of mid-day, out of the dusty yellow wildfire air; into the coach car, reclining the seat, and feeling your head rest squarely in my lap as you shut your eyes. The tufts of your cherry curls felt like soft wet grass in my hands. I wanted to smell the earth beneath and rest with you on top of me till I fell asleep for good. What if we didn't get off? Kept riding north while the red sun sets on us and there's nothing left to see in the night, just feel each other's bodies while the world moves around us and we end up in Canada. Though it was a small consolation seeing you take your bike off the train. The pink sundress you just bought at the thrift store was hiked up in the back. It was only for a second. You stood up to pedal. I cherished the perfect view of your white panties hugging tightly to the smooth curve of your ass. You stopped, pulled the cotton down, and looked side to side. You couldn't know who saw. Then you took out your phone for a photo of the little evil looking red dot setting in the hazy wildfire sky over the city and Forest Park. Though it was I who had the divine angle for a landscape. One last picture to tide me over before you went.
But on that train we were somewhere else. When you woke up and started playing the Sunday crossword we sat in comfortable silence, my hand on your leg feeling the warmth of your skin. The rattle of the track really is all I could imagine hearing except for when you every so often softly offer a crossword clue, without looking up. It was a welcomed surprise when you whispered something other than "Began devouring, say." HADAT. Something slightly dirty, a dream you had, a time you touched yourself in secret, before you looked back at 23 down and asked for "a sign of love in Latin America." BESOS.
What would happen if we got caught when you grabbed my hand and moved it between your legs? They were open and I could feel you through your panties under your dress. You still fiddled with the crossword, but didn't need help with any clues while I helped you in this way. I touched you gently, rubbing first my thumb, then my finger against the outline of your pussy. Lightly grazing you as if only by accident, before pressing a little firmer. You put the crossword down and looked up to see if anyone was watching. Across the aisle a college student had her headphones in, lost with half her attention in a notebook and the other on her computer. Beyond her was a window to a passing yellow winery. We're leaving behind grape vines almost ripe to harvest. Then you looked back at me and I saw your eyes again for what felt like the first time. The hues of green in them shone through, they seemed deep and cool. We lingered in this stare for a minute, my fingers slowly running along the length of your pussy through your underwear. Now I checked to see who was watching. The only stir was the hypnotic rattle of the tracks.
Before I looked back I could feel your lips against my ear and chills ran down my back, into my arms, and through my stiffening cock. My fingers pressed harder on you and I could see that wonderful look. You quivered a little as you bit the bottom of your plump violet lip. Your eyes welled slightly, and you fought off the urge to make noise.
