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Tracks | Dec 13 2003

We’re sitting on a little loading dock at the edge of train tracks. The platform is cement and sticks out from what may be a yellow building. Trains stop here—or did. She’s sitting to my left and has her back against the loading dock door, which may be corrugated. I have my hand in her pants.

I’m not sure which hand it is.

There may be also houses whose yards border the opposite side of the tracks, behind a row of trees or bushes.

The platform is visible from the road but far enough away so that no one can tell what we’re doing.

This is happening just after the first time we got back together, the time that begins from when she saw me from her living room window. It may even be the same day.

It’s not clear which side I’m on, her left or her right. The one image I have is of the building and platform as seen from the road. The building is a block or more long and made of brick. The brick is painted a light color—yellow probably, or white. I don’t know what’s beyond the building, but it feels very open back there. The tracks, bordered on the right by trees, trail off into the horizon.