Leaves glowed red and yellow under the morning sun. She could hear strains of Billie Holiday in her head—that unmistakable voice. “Body and Soul”—that was the tune. Other commuter’s walked the same path to the same train, but they all had different destinations: one train to many places. They moved through the turnstiles—all together and so separate, and then down the stairs to the tracks. Crisp air. Autumn air. City air. Soon enough, she felt the familiar rumble of wheels as the train approached. All the commuters lined up, positioning themselves, waiting for the doors to slap open and closed long enough to admit them. She stepped onto the first car and sat on the long bench-like seat just under the windows. The train started up again, and she watched the blur of buildings, the sun lit brick, go by. On the wall of the train posters advertised: attend this college, watch this show. One poster displayed an old photo of the Beatles—young and so full of possibility. Of the four of them, George stood out the most—his face shining. The train slowed toward its next stop. She looked out to the buildings and saw the graffiti: “There is no god” and “The world ends now.” The train stopped. Its doors slapped open and closed. A few stepped off, and a few stepped on. And then the rumble of wheels again, the blur of buildings. She looked into George Harrison’s eyes.
“Chant with me,” he seemed to say. “Bodyandsoulbodyandsoulbodyandsoul.”
She concentrated on the movement of the one train and its many destinations. Billie Holiday. George Harrison. This man. That woman. The opening and closing of doors. The rumble of wheels. Body and Soul.
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