From: wwhitman@nevada.edu (MICHAEL WISE)
Subject: Re: Books in the time of Love
Organization: University of Nevada System Computing Services
Date: Sat, 3 Oct 1992 07:08:57 GMT

I wrote this story because of a scene like this I saw in the Madrid subway.
It was an epiphany for me, because it made me realise that, even though 
my girlfriend was standing right next to me, even though we had lived to-
gether for two years, even though we had decided to take this trip together,
we were not in love. The couple on the platform exuded love for each other.
So I wrote the story about love and its loss, my loss since I felt, as that
train pulled away, that I would never have that kind of love.
Only a few weeks ago, however, I had a passionate affair with a young 
Spanish girl who could easily have been the girl I pictured in the story.
She had long, curly hair, totally black, with fair skin and dark eyes. 
We knew each other from a small English school; One of her friends was my
student. A passion quickly developed, and we became lovers for the few days
she had left before returning to Spain. She never hesitated to show her
love for me: she would kiss and hug me in public, she would hold my hand
and put her arm around me. And I would do the same. 
She was the merging of a fiction and a reality, a dream for me as much as,
she told me, I was a dream for her. Then I put her on a plane. I hope this
story has a happier ending than the one you're about to read. Remember,
there's nothing in there that says she leaves him forever.

In a Station of the Metro
		The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
		Petals on a wet, black bough.
			--Ezra Pound
As the trains pulled in and out of the Metro station, a girl, water dripping 
from her hair, her face pink with the cold, came down the escalator to the 
platform. Pulling a pack of Marlboros out of her leather jacket, she 
looked around, moving from face to face, as crowds of men in trenchcoats 
walked past, each one avoiding her stare until he passed, then turning, 
looking back before stepping into the blue and white subway car. Each one 
followed her gaze from behind the window, fantasizing, hoping to be the 
object of her large, dark, searching eyes, until the train began to move 
away, slowly gaining speed as it entered the black tunnel. Engulfed in 
darkness, their thoughts turned back to dinner. 
Those eyes finally came to rest on the spot where a young man stood, 
waited, smoking. Standing close to the edge of the platform, he flicked 
a butt into the well as a train rushed past, only inches away from his 
heavy workboot. He took a pack out of his soiled jeans pocket, her brand, 
the red box mangled and dirty. He tapped it twice, taking the cigarette by 
the burning end and sticking it between his lips. A match flared, lighting 
momentarily his hard chin and the stubble no razor could wipe away. He 
didn't move towards her; she advanced, drew close to him, not enough to 
touch but enough to whisper over the roar of the trains. She took a long 
drag from her cigarette, perhaps said something. She smiled, her lips 
moved, but it was hard to tell whether they formed words. 
He took her hands in his, the large, darkened, callused fingers holding 
the small, immaculate hands. His thumbs rubbed her knuckles, moving 
around the Marlboro that burned down between her fingers. He drew her 
close, their faces almost touching. Her deep red lips parted slightly, 
coming back together as she lifted her cigarette to them. She backed off 
slightly to exhale, a cloud of smoke wrapping them up and disappearing 
with the approach of the next train. She leaned forward, reaching her 
lips up towards his ear, her cheek brushing his. Her lips parted again, 
as she touched them to his cheek. She felt his shoulders, brawny and 
darkened by the sun, with her hands. The ash fell into the puddle 
behind him, as the smoke rose, the hand reaching up to caress his 
hair, brisly, short, and black. He grasped her neck with his rough 
hands, grasped deep into the curly wet black mane that fell over her 
jacket down her back, and held her light frame with his glistening 
fingers, wet from running though her hair. Without denying, she jerked 
her face away from him. Holding her body close to his, arching back 
into his hands, she allowed him, invited him, to explore her cheeks, 
her jaw, the supple muscles of her neck, with his lips, his teeth, his 
sandpaper-rough cheeks. She flushed, either from embarrassment, or from 
that beard and those teeth on her delicate face. The ember glowed red as 
she drew on it, her eyes closed and her face red, smiling. 
Her face betrayed any words of anger or hatred she used against him. 
Holding her in his strong, violent arms, he controlled her competely. 
Still, he lived for her whims; if she asked for a peseta or for his life, 
he had no choice but to give it. For one moment, nothing disturbed them;
the commuters glanced that way with embarrassment before rushing off to 
the train. The crowd flowed around them in a frenzied dance, the clacking 
of the rails keeping time, as the two principals defied the force tearing
them apart.
The embrace broke, as the river of passersby tugged them in separate 
directions. Her hands moved down his arms, past the elbows, moving 
across his palms to his fingers. These she clung to for several 
seconds, looking into his eyes. Hers began to well up, dribbling 
across her cheeks. Letting go, she snapped away from him, flowing 
into the current that boarded the next train. He followed her with 
his eyes, but didn't move. She stood by the window next to him, still 
crying, not daring to look out. She gathered herself, wiping her cheeks 
with the back of her hand. She felt him standing outside the window next 
to her, even as the train pulled away. 
He saw the end of the car pulling into the tunnel, the lights receding 
until they disappeared around a corner. He stared at the tunnel, his 
eyes trying to draw the car back. The next train rushed in behind him, 
its wheels screeching as it stopped momentarily. A soft pneumatic hiss, 
another, then it howled as it raced into the hole behind the girl. Train 
after train went by this way, but he couldn't take his eyes off the 
opening. He watched until the platform was empty and the final train 
pulled away. Only then did he pull the cigarette from behind his ear, 
light it, and walk slowly towards the escalator. He stepped on it, and 
it carried him up, the smoke lingering momentarily behind, as he rose 
into the rain.






From: zornow@hpcc01.corp.hp.com (Claudia Zornow)
Date: Tue, 29 Sep 1992 23:49:05 GMT
Subject: Re: WWII Novels?
Organization: HP SSD R & D