Line 2 by Judy Nyairo

Line 2

by judy nyairo

The arrival of the train is heralded by a gust of wind. It blows the crumbs from the blueberry 

scone I had eaten a few minutes before, walking from the cafe I had been at for the whole 

afternoon, off my fingers. I readjust the plastic cup in my hand — the condensation is 

making it slippery, the leftovers of my lemonade swirling around in the container.

I had chosen a bad time to go back to my sister's place. Rush hour was in full swing, the 

seats completely taken up. There was barely any room to stand, but I pushed myself into 

the mess of it, holding my bag tighter, keeping my elbows close. In conditions like these, 

packed in so close there was barely room to breathe, it was disconcertingly easy to get 

home, only to find someone had slipped their hand into your bag. You'd never know who it 

was, and you'd never see them or your things again.

Arriving at: Yonge. Yonge Station. Change to Line 1.

Everyone breaks into movement, either leaving to make room for new passengers or 

shuffling around, trying to grab a spot to sit. Being a popular station, any space, standing or 

sitting, is quickly snatched up by people from work or school in the city center, an early 

dinner, or a tour of the islands. I manage to find an area that's not so crowded next to a 

man wearing headphones, but I pay more attention to the group of girls huddled near the 

door. They're dressed up, eyeliner and eyeshadow and body glitter, but they're shaking, 

crying. Fingers fly over phone screens. I avert my eyes, not wanting to be caught staring. I 

had heard gunshots downtown. I hope that no one was hurt, but with the way the girls look, 

I doubt it. I hope that whoever they are, that person is okay.

Arriving at: Sherbourne. Sherbourne Station.

Something is said over the speaker, muffled and indistinct. The man beside me slides off 

his headphones as I do, and we meet eyes, wondering what was said. I shrug, and so does 

he, so we go back to our music, hoping that whatever it was wasn't important. I catch a 

glimpse of his phone as he readjusts — he's listening to heavy metal, real loud stuff that I 

had a feeling my sister's fiancé would enjoy. Maybe like my sister, his partner had just 

introduced him to the music, and he was feeling it out, trying to decide if it was for him, 

another point of connection for him and the person he loved to bond over.

Arriving at: Castle Frank. Castle Frank Station.

The light shines through the windows as we move from underground to hanging above the 

highway. It looks beautiful like this, the sun setting behind the dense trees while traffic 

accumulates below. I'm grateful to be somewhere that doesn't need a car — how do all 

these people get anywhere when they're bumper to bumper? I'm sure the ones in the cars 

are wondering the same thing. Someone down there is late for a meeting, and another one 

might be rushing to the hospital, but with the traffic so backed up, they won't be going 

anywhere anytime soon. I notice a few others looking out the window. A child, kneeling on 

his seat, holding it with both hands as he stares out, wide-eyed; a woman who snaps a 

picture of the sunset with her phone; another girl with dark skin, shining in this golden hour. 

Soon, it goes dark again, and I miss the light. 

Arriving at: Broadview. Broadview Station.

Teenagers climb aboard, dressed in dark robes, graduation caps on their heads. They sit 

together on the far end of the carriage, huddled in with one another, discussing something I 

had no chance of hearing. I could, however, see the shine in their eyes, the excitement, 

that rush. What will we do next? What happens now? I try my best to guess — the one on 

the far left, he'll become a doctor. The one in the middle, clutching a book I can't make out 

the title of, she'll do Engineering before realizing that her true love is Literature. The one on 

the other end, he's not so sure he'll go to college at all, but he will, eventually. Someone 

tells a joke, and they all laugh, long and hard. Some people glance over at them, annoyed, 

but I can't bring myself to be too irritated at their joy.

Arriving at: Chester. Chester Station.

A man stumbles in, going to rest on the divider and nearly falling flat. Other travelers look 

on in annoyance, disgust, and pity, for a few. I just watch as he collects himself as best he 

can, hand running down a slightly soiled shirt, and locks his gaze onto another man closer 

to me, a man desperately averting his eyes. The drunk man calls out to him, first and last 

name, to the point he couldn't possibly be ignored. Almost dying of mortification, the other 

man pushes himself farther into the train wall as his intoxicated friend comes to sit next to 

him, chatting loudly about his day. The embarrassed man looks fed up; this is an issue his 

friend needs to confront, and he won't let it go on for much longer.

Arriving at: Pape. Pape Station.

A rush of bodies floods in. Like the other girls, they're wearing heavy makeup, but they're 

holding CDs and vinyls, still wrapped in plastic, and most have a paper band around their 

wrist. It must have been a concert. I wonder what kind of music it was, whether it would be 

something I'd enjoy. One of the concertgoers pulls out a t-shirt they must have bought from 

the merchandise table and shows it to his friends, who all start fawning over it, wonder and 

want in their eyes. The boy who owns it holds it close, clearly very satisfied.

Arriving at: Donlands. Donlands Station.

The stop is rougher than usual, so abrupt I feel a jerk in my stomach. I try not to stumble 

too much, paranoid that someone will see it and realize that I'm not really from here, an 

outsider. People leave. The group from the concert move to sit down; in my line of sight is a 

harried woman, holding a small, crying child in one hand and the handle of a stroller in the 

other. There's another child hovering near her legs, wanting to be carried. It seems like a 

family outing, gone horribly wrong. She shifts and says something to a man sitting nearby, 

clearly terse, snapping words by the way he hunches his shoulders near his ears, 

defensive. They don't seem very happy. The woman's eyes are so full of disdain, and his of 

indifference, that I can't imagine they'll stay together for much longer.

Arriving at: Greenwood. Greenwood Station.

Someone's phone rings nearby. I hear them apologize to the person they're talking to, I 

need to take this, but when they pick up, they switch to another language. Korean, I think. I 

sneak a glance towards them, see if I can't pick up on what they're talking about from facial 

expressions alone. It's a man, faintly annoyed, a line straight between his eyebrows. He 

pinches his nose at one point. I imagine it's a family member, those distant ones that only 

pop in once in a blue moon. Maybe they're asking for money or begging for grand-nieces 

and nephews. He isn't having it — he just doesn't want children right now. Or ever. He ends 

the call abruptly before I can guess and continues to talk to the person next to him in 

English, tone flatter, less forgiving.

Arriving at: Coxwell. Coxwell Station.

There's a woman in front of me now, hair falling from its bun, texting someone. On my way,

it says, and it's responded to with a heart. Maybe it's her partner, waiting so they can have 

dinner together. She sighs, looking upward before continuing to text. It seems like it has 

been a hard day for her, nine full hours of nothing but office work, or waiting tables. This 

train ride probably can't go any faster for her, stuck in a space between misery and joy.

Arriving at: Woodbine. Woodbine Station.

Everyone is picking up their phone today. A woman, gum smacking in her mouth, walks into 

the carriage, phone glued to her ear, talking loud enough for everyone to unwillingly hear 

her conversation. Personally, I feel that it's one better discussed in private — her boyfriend 

cheated on her, can you imagine, with one of her best friends, Renee, yeah, you know 

Renee. I can't believe she would do this to me. I don't even have to make assumptions 

about her life, because she's letting us all know, very, very loudly. I do hold sympathy for 

her, though. As she speaks, her eyes begin to fog up. As my eyes drift to the subway map 

above her head, I hope that she finds better people to surround herself with.

Arriving at: Main Street. Main Street Station.

Finally. My legs, stuck in one cramped spot for the whole ride, can finally stretch as I stand 

and hitch my tote bag higher on my shoulder. I finished my drink some unknown time ago, 

so taken with examining the tiny glimpses I had into strangers' lives. Maybe someone else 

was doing the same, looking at me with my afro and bag in hand, wondering about me, 

where I had come from, where I was going. How did they see me? It was a question I didn't 

think I would ever have the answer to.

I stepped onto the familiar platform, air sucked out like a vacuum as the train sped away.