Jane listens silently, nodding. One of the things August loves most about her is that she doesn’t go chasing after unspoken words when August is done talking. She can let a silence settle, let a truth breathe.

Then she opens her mouth and says, “Sometimes I like to have my ass slapped during sex.”

August squawks out a laugh, caught off guard. “What? You’ve never asked me to do that.”

“Angel, there are a lot of things I’d like to do with you that can’t be done on a train.”

August swallows. “Point.”

Jane raises her eyebrows. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Aren’t you gonna write that down in your little sex notebook?”

“My—” August’s face is instantly hot. “You weren’t supposed to know about that!”

“You’re not that discreet, August. One time I swear you whipped it out before I even got my pants buttoned.”

August moans in dismay. She knows exactly what entry Jane is talking about. Page three, section M, subheading four: overstimulation.

“I have to die now,” August says into her hands.

“No, it’s cute! You’re such a nerd. It’s endearing!” Jane laughs, always so amused about making August suffer. It’s despicable. “Your turn.”

“No way, you already exposed a thing I didn’t think you knew about me,” August says. “I’m feeling very vulnerable.”

“Oh my God, you’re impossible.”

“I’m not going.”

“Then we’re at an impasse. Unless you wanna come over here and kiss me.”

August lifts her face out of her hands. “And get electrocuted? I’m pretty sure if I kissed you right now, it would literally kill me.”

“That’s how it always feels, isn’t it?”

“Oh my God,” August groans, even though her heart does something humiliating at the words. “Shut up and eat your orange.”

Jane sticks her tongue out but does as she’s told, finishing off her half and licking her fingertips when she’s done.

“I missed oranges,” she says. “Really good ones, though. You gotta start grocery shopping in Chinatown.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, back home, my mom would take me to all the markets every Sunday morning and let me pick out the fruit because I always had this sixth sense with sweet stuff. Best oranges you could find. We used to get so many, I’d have to carry some home in my pockets.”

August smiles to herself as she pictures a tiny Jane, chubby cheeks and untied shoes, toddling through a fruit stand with her pockets full of produce. She imagines Jane’s mom as a young woman with her hair tied up and shot through with premature gray, haggling with a butcher in Cantonese. San Francisco, Chinatown, the place that made Jane.

“What’s the first thing you’ll do,” August asks, “when you get back to ’77?”

“I don’t know,” Jane says. “Try to catch that bus to California, I guess.”

“You should. I bet California misses you.”

Jane nods. “Yeah.”

“You know,” August says, “if this works, by now you’ll be almost seventy.”

Jane pulls a face. “Oh my God, that’s so weird.”

“Oh yeah.” August gazes up at the tunnel ceiling. “I bet you have a house, and it’s filled with souvenirs from all over the world because you spent your thirties backpacking through Europe and Asia. Windchimes everywhere. Nothing matches.”

“The furniture is nice and sturdy, but I never take care of the yard,” Jane puts in. “It’s a jungle. You can’t even see the front door.”

“The homeowners’ association hates you.”

Jane chuckles. “Good.”

August lets a quiet moment go by before adding, carefully, “I bet you’re married.”

In the low light, she can see Jane’s smile dip downward, a corner of her mouth tugging. “I don’t know.”

“I hope you are,” August says. “Maybe some girl finally came along at the right time, and you married her.”

Jane shrugs, pursing her lips. The dimple pops out on one side.

“She’s gonna have to live with the fact that I’ll always wish she were someone else.”

“Come on,” August says. “That’s not fair. She’s a nice lady.”

Jane looks up and rolls her eyes, but her mouth relaxes. She rests her hands on the rail and cranes her head back.

“What if I stay?” she says. “What’s the first thing you’ll do?”

There are a thousand things August could say, a thousand things she wants to do. Sleep next to her. Buy her lunch at the jerk chicken joint across the street. Brighton Beach. Prospect Park. Kiss her with the door shut.

But she says simply, “Take you home with me.”

Before Jane can respond, a flashlight beam cuts through the darkness at the city hall end of the tunnel. Jane’s head whips around.

“Hey! Who’s in there?” a gruff voice shouts. “Get the fuck out of the tunnel!”

“Fuckin’ pigs,” Jane says, jumping up and scattering orange peel everywhere. “Run!”

They run back through the tunnel toward Canal Street, Jane stumbling in the rush but never losing her balance on the third rail, and at some point near the fork, they start laughing. Loud, breathless, incredulous, hysterical laughter, filling up the tracks and pulling at August’s lungs as she struggles toward their line. When they reach the Q, there’s a train just pulling out of the station, and Jane takes a running jump and grabs the handle on the back of the last car.

“Come on!” she yells, turning back for August’s hand. August grabs on and lets Jane’s strong grip pull her up.

“Is this our thing?” Jane shouts over the rattle of the train as it carries them toward Brooklyn. “Kissing between subway cars?”

“You haven’t kissed me yet!” August points out.

“Oh, right,” Jane says. She brushes August’s windswept hair out of her face, and when their lips meet, she tastes like oranges and lightning.

 

* * *

 

August stays on the train late into the night, until the cars start to clear out and the timetable stretches longer and longer. She waits for the magic hour, and from the way Jane drags her hand along her waist, she’s waiting too.

There’s no convenient darkness this time, no perfectly timed stall, but there’s an empty car and the Manhattan Bridge and Jane pressing into her, hips moving and short breaths and kiss-slick lips. It should feel dirty, to be with Jane like this, here, but what’s crazy is, she finally understands it all. Love. The whole shape of it. What it means to touch someone like this and want to have a life with them at the same time.

Deliriously, the image of Jane with her house and her plants and her windchimes swims into view, and August is there too, wearing the shape of her body into an old bed. Jane slots between her legs and she thinks, fifty years. Jane bites down on her throat and she thinks of framed photos and stained recipe cards. Jane tightens against her fingertips and she thinks, home. Her eyes shut for Jane’s mouth and a good night’s sleep just the same.