Subterranean Surrender
By Chantale Reve
Copyright © 2005/2011 Chantale Reve
Smashwords Edition
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Millie escaped the murky atmosphere at street level by disappearing into the hellhole that was the Bedford-Nostrand subway station. Like every morning for the past two months, she was running late for work. Not that tardiness created anxiety. A lifetime of stable employment at a profitable, family-owned stationery emporium was practically guaranteed. The Orthodox Jewish manager, Ari, who had part interest in the fifty-year-old business, had taken full interest in Millie’s Boricua assets from the point of hire. Her nervousness on this humid spring day stemmed from the strange recurring dream that had awakened her at three in the morning, as it had over the past several months.
Making her way first through the turnstile, then past zombies passing for commuters, Millie popped a stick of Doublemint in her mouth and cracked it Brooklyn-style to match the rhythm in her gait. Everyone else was on automatic pilot, repeatedly leaning over the platform’s edge to wish the downtown “A” train into existence. When she reached the end of the platform, Millie flicked her long wavy hair over her shoulders, exposing a red silk blouse that flattered her breasts. The muscular protrusion near her collarbone created the illusion that she was athletic. And she pulled it off, often mistaken for a ballet dancer.
In the dim, semi-private nook of the subway station, she could’ve clocked in a few warm-ups to relieve the tension that lingered from the bothersome dream. Instead she settled for standing in the first position, as if about to plié. But her seductive dark eyes told another story, concealed a secret that she thought she’d buried, which the dream had somehow unearthed. At one time she would’ve felt more at home swinging around the go-go pole than bending at the barre.
Pupils dilated and legs unsteady, Millie staggered over to the nearest pillar. Her fingers fidgeted in her bag, searching for house keys. Palming the keys gave her an iota of emotional security, though their jagged designs unsettled her. Rough around the edges, like the railroad tracks below, like her. She embodied a cliffhanger: there was always a chance that someone would tune in to her trodden past. Her eyes lifted from the rusty tracks and drifted in the direction of the tunnel. Its black abyss she imagined as a bridge to forgetfulness, but it lured her anxious mind. Staring into the darkness mutated her neurons – the abnormalities severely affecting the synapses.
Millie didn’t know what to make of the faceless stranger who had chased her through the blurry nightscape. That the figure was that of a white dude further disturbed her, because she lost her innocence in her freshman year of college to an obese white man who fondled her after she’d removed her coat on a hot, airless “E” train. Perhaps she had repressed the memory of the duration of the assault or never knew it. Back then, she was too afraid, too traumatized to scream. Besides, her body felt frozen. Fear froze not only flesh and bodily liquids but breath, too. Thus, announcing to a nearby adult that a transgression was happening was not a viable option.
Memory can be the devil’s mistress. So far underground, one can lose one’s train of thought. That recollection was Waterford crystal-clear, however. She remembered wearing with pride the red velour cowlneck sweater made by her seamstress mother, how she’d paired it with beige corduroy Calvin Klein pants that hugged her curves. However, she couldn’t fathom where the stranger had boarded the subway car. She only remembered that he had departed briskly at Times Square, which at that time was New York City’s red-light district.