Mind the Gap | ✔️

January 14 @ 9:33 A.M.: Iris

Train rides were my inspiration.

So many nuances, tinges, and shades to capture in an illustration of the Bostonian T world. I would have loved to draw it all, right there and then.

I liked trains. I liked their rhythm, and I liked the freedom of being suspended between two places, all anxieties of purpose taken care of: for this moment I knew where I was going.

Who were these people? Where did they come from, where did they go to, who did they love, and who did they hate?

We all shared the same space, day after day, even if just for a little while.

So close, yet so far away.

The subway was such a shame sometimes.

So much potential for connection—all of it wasted.

That's what I'd usually wonder. Today though, I simply snuggled up in my comfy heavy coat with a contented sigh, remembering Jayden's promise to get some of my graphic novel illustrations published.

His dad would find me a publisher because they were good.

Not because we were lovers. I had made him swear to that and he'd better be telling the truth!

The publication would show my mother. She'd always said my "doodling" would get me nowhere and rejected my wish to study art. But last year my illustrations had finally been noticed and highly spoken of at Massachusetts Independent Comics Expo. I was steeling myself to prepare a query letter package after my latest project was completed, but Jayden's dad had connections that might help me skip that unpleasant step. The old man was a financial genius, advising numerous companies, one of them being Marvel Entertainment.

Pop!

The biggest bubblegum balloon I had made in like, forever, went off before my face with a Big Bang. I was pretty sure some of the gum was now stuck to my braces.

It sure earned me some reproachful glances from my fellow riders.

Stretching in my seat, I enjoyed the last moments of privacy before Downtown Crossing station, where passengers would flood the train.

A few minutes later, the doors opened with a swish, and a frail, elderly woman clutching a fuzzy bundle of brown fur stepped into the car.

I placed a hand on the seat opposite to defend it from the oncoming hordes and gestured her to join me.

She sat. "Thanks, dear."

As the train started moving again, the fuzzy bundle of brown on her lap gave me a big-eyed, long-eared stare.

It was a puppy!

"Awwwie, your dog looks lovely. Eek! Is that a corgi? It's my favorite dog breed. How old is it?" I leaned forward moments after she made herself comfortable.

"Oh yes, you're quite right. A corgi it is. It's a she. Ruby Tuesday," the woman said with a wrinkly smile.

"Ruby Tuesday! No way! I adore that name. And that song! Can I please pet her?" I squealed with glee.

"Of course, my dear."

I fingered through the stash in the humongous, Mary-Poppins-like pockets of my coat.

If there was one thing I always carried, it was food.

Human food, because there would always come the time of the day when I wanted to do bad things with carbs.

But I knew I had some dog treats in there, too.

The little comic book shop at Harvard Square, Million Year Picnic, where I worked, did not even know how true to its name it was. During every lunch break, I would sneak up to the back alley and feed the stray dogs prowling around. A luxurious canine picnic indeed.