DAILY ADELINE

DAILY ADELINE

By the time we got to Quincy, the train was pretty full. Only a couple
more stops to go, but you could see that it wasn't going to be
pleasant. And the heat was like an extra-big passenger who takes up
more than his share of available space.
Through a gap in the wall of pushing bodies this old dear appeared.
She looked like a tiny anaemic plant, struggling for light and air in
the forest of tall trees that packed around her, propelling her forward
into the carriage. Then she stood alone, left behind in the rush for
the odd seats or handholds that remained.
A young African-American boy got up. "No, no, young man," she said, "I
ride this line every day and I've never sat yet. Seats are for old
folks." She adjusted something on the personal stereo strapped to her
biker's metal belt and hauled a set of purple headphones over her
braids and hummed along with Bon Jovi until she spotted a plain-looking
girl perched on the padded corner seat. The type that could be
invisible in a crowd of three. Her cheekbone was swollen and tinged
with that yellowish-mauve colour old bruises mellow into - an artistic
blend that belies how they came to be 'painted' there in the first
place.
At first, it looked like the old lady knew the girl.
"He's not worth it, my dear. A beautiful young woman like you should
have men falling at her feet. I never slept with a man in my life.
That's what's kept me so young. I don't expect everyone to follow my
example, though. Mother used to say: 'Adeline, you'll end up an old
maid.' But I don't think there's anything wrong with being an old maid.
I'm quite looking forward to it. Love yourself first, my dear. I
do."
And she went back to Jon, like a call she'd put on hold for a second
to see to a pot boiling over, as she manoeuvred her way down the
carriage.
By the time we got to downtown Boston, the game at Fenway Park seemed
like a bonus.