I pace the tracks, one eye on my watch, the other searching for my best friend, Louise. It’s 1973, a brutal August. We’re twelve, latchkey kids who make our own dinners and ride trains into Boston for fun. I open my pocketbook, reread my diary entries. Another train screeches to a stop as blistering steam fogs up my glasses. I’m counting the passengers disembark when I see her. She’s running down the slope, black hair flapping behind her, waving her hands as if to say, I’m sorry! I did it again! I never scold. My heart is leaping too fast.
Phyllis Rittner writes stories from her home in Watertown, MA. She is continually inspired by her peeps at The Charles River Writing Collective. Facebook: phyllis.rittner