Marcelo and Vita met one Tuesday, on the train.It was late at night and Marcelo, who had been working the whole day, acted sluggish and sleepier than usual. Then he saw her—this blur of a girl, who was talking to herself aloud. It was that moment. No, it was not a moment of magic. It was more like a moment of luminous curiosity, as he watched the girl in blue move her lips. And though there was nothing particularly attractive about this awkward girl, Marcelo noticed her while she contemplated—quite loudly—which train door to choose. He watched her as she tilted her head from side to side, her hair quite tousled from her tilting. He noticed too that, instead of getting angry, she pouted silly faces when she was pushed. He chuckled reflexively as she made faces at the doors she didn’t like. He felt she understood this girl’s eccentricities, the way she treated train doors with so much animation as if they are going to be kind to her if she smiled at them more, as if choosing the right door is most crucial to her breathing.He smiled and then looked away from her. It was enough for him to see this blur from afar, it had been enough to have awakened him from that sleepy night. But when he turned to his side, she was there standing a meter apart from him. And, she must have noticed that Marcelo was looking quite intently at her, she turned to him and casually exclaimed as if in anticipation for his most honest answer,“I hope this is the right door.”She paused, her eyebrows suspended in quizzical expression, waiting for him to say a word.

Marcelo and Vita met one Tuesday, on the train.

It was late at night and Marcelo, who had been working the whole day, acted sluggish and sleepier than usual. Then he saw her—this blur of a girl, who was talking to herself aloud.

It was that moment.

No, it was not a moment of magic. It was more like a moment of luminous curiosity, as he watched the girl in blue move her lips. And though there was nothing particularly attractive about this awkward girl, Marcelo noticed her while she contemplated—quite loudly—which train door to choose. He watched her as she tilted her head from side to side, her hair quite tousled from her tilting. He noticed too that, instead of getting angry, she pouted silly faces when she was pushed. He chuckled reflexively as she made faces at the doors she didn’t like. He felt she understood this girl’s eccentricities, the way she treated train doors with so much animation as if they are going to be kind to her if she smiled at them more, as if choosing the right door is most crucial to her breathing.

He smiled and then looked away from her. It was enough for him to see this blur from afar, it had been enough to have awakened him from that sleepy night. But when he turned to his side, she was there standing a meter apart from him. And, she must have noticed that Marcelo was looking quite intently at her, she turned to him and casually exclaimed as if in anticipation for his most honest answer,

“I hope this is the right door.”

She paused, her eyebrows suspended in quizzical expression, waiting for him to say a word.

Notes