The 11:59 to Washington Square
By Cat Sole
It was 11:42 on a cold night in June, and Otto Pensington was waiting for the 11:59 train to Washington Square. He stood with the toes of his worn out trainers perched one inch over the yellow warning line, staring down at the parallel lines of steel below him.
The clock ticked to 11.43.
“Good night for it.”
A shivering young woman, her arms wrapped around herself, stepped up next to Otto. The toes of her scruffy boots aligned with his on the wrong side of the warning line.
“If you were a gentleman,” she continued. “You’d offer me your coat. But it won’t matter in...” she looked at the train clock “...thirteen minutes, anyway.”
“I don’t know,” Otto returned. “That would require the train service being on time.”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Not many.”
She stuck out her arm. Her skin was lined with goosebumps. “Raven.”
He took it. “Otto.”
“Otto?”
“Pensington.”
“Wow.”
“Yep.” He started to shrug off his coat.
“Hey,” Raven protested. “I was joking.”
He draped the coat over her shivering shoulders. “Like you said. It’s not going to matter soon, anyway.”
They both gazed over the dark tracks, glinting in the moonlight. A car alarm sounded in the distance.
11:49.
“I’ve always wanted to be in the newspaper,” Raven said. “It was one of the things I’d thought I’d never get to do.”
“Who says you’re important enough to make the newspaper?”
“I do.” Raven shoved him playfully, making him stumble an inch closer to the edge of the platform. “Maybe our chances will increase, now that’s there two of us. What do you think the headline will be? Two desperate lovers, separated in life, but now together forever?”
“How about, 'Failed stand-up comedian snaps, murders young woman, idiotically kills himself in the process.'”
“Too wordy. Besides, maybe I murdered you.”
He cast a glance her way. She looked so small in his coat. “Of course. Woman can be murderers, too.”
“Equality all way.”
“Of course.”
11:53.
“Tell me a joke.”
Otto looked at her. “A joke?”
“You said you were a comedian. Tell me a joke.”
“A failed stand-up comedian.”
“You must have had one good joke. I promise I’ll laugh.”
“Promise?”
“Cross my heart, and swear to die.”
11:54.
“Ok. So there’s this satanic worshipper, and he wants to sell his soul to Satan. So he sets up the ritual, gets all the books, makes the blood sacrifice, and says, “I sell my soul for eternal life!” And there’s all this banging and flashing and a man dressed all in red appears. Except he also has a bushy white beard and smells like cookies. “Santa?” the worshipper says. Santa looks at the worshipper, sighs, and says, “Another dyslexic.””
A train horn echoed from the distance. Otto glanced at Raven. “You promised you’d laugh.”
“You really are a failed comedian.”
“But not a liar.”
“Very true.”
Their eyes met. A snort escaped Raven’s nose before she could stop it, and she bent forward, her body shaking with laughter.
Otto raised his arms to the sky. “Validation! You should come to my next show. At least one person will laugh.”
11:57.
“Next show?”
Their eyes flicked to the train clock.
“Sure. Why not?“
"Why not.”
11.58. A train whistle, much closer than before. A spot of light in the distance, approaching rapidly, faster and faster.
A pair of worn out trainers and a pair of scruffy boots perched on the wrong side of a yellow warning line.
11:59.
THE END