The Silver T to the West Side Highway

by Sarah Sassone

They went to the silver line of Boston to

get out of Boston, sprinting, striding, strolling

across the conveyer belt walkways, or even just

inconveniently standing there, because it's not like

they were in New York. They walked in single

file. They drank coffee, they ate Boston scones, they watched

the seven o'clock morning news. He looked out the window and

watched the clouds fade and move south, even though

they were supposed to go west. She watched the airport

employees and security guards toss the luggage into the

airplane, trusting that her suitcase would protect the last

of her late mother's possessions. The children

of a close-to-broken family were excited 

for a late vacation. They

lined up.  They passed security.  They were ready

to go to Los Angeles.


From the top, they could see New Jersey, Connecticut,

Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, and, of course, the Big

Apple in a sterile sky.  Maybe they should have

seen it coming. They drank coffee, they ate New York

bagels, they watched the seven o'clock morning news. He usually

worked on the fourth floor but had to go up to the seventy-

seventh to accounting that day. She sat at her three-by-four cubicle

on the fifty-ninth floor and got there early to photocopy

what and where she could have been.  They walked in single file.

They punched their times. Maybe they looked out their windows.

But the vague shadow across the West Side Highway

was one that they only saw for a semi-second, if that.