Late Night Ride

Now fully transformed except for the final swipe of Midnight Fuchsia lip stain—Jamaica was ready.

Ready to feel beautiful again. Ready to sing, dance, and burn off the stress of a life built on compromise.

By day, she was the successful sales executive. By force, she was the man the world expected her to be. But tonight—tonight, she was Jamaica.

She caught her reflection in a compact mirror just as the train pulled into the station. A smile of satisfaction crossed her lips. In the mirror, she also glimpsed another woman—a beautiful woman. Jamaica’s eyes lingered, then the mirror disappeared back into her bag.

The woman was middle-aged, yet timeless. A maroon scarf matched both her nails and the delicate straps around her ankles. Her posture was regal, eyes set slightly above the fray and past her husband, past the stares of strangers who either envied or desired her.

Estrella

She entered the train at Metro Center with her husband, Tony. He didn’t care who boarded first. He just knew Estrella would follow. She always did—silently, with a faint smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Her soul, meanwhile, seemed far away.

Tony and Estrella made a striking pair. Heads turned. He was impeccably dressed, exuding a practiced air of nonchalance. She was a walking magazine cover—an effortless beauty in motion.

While Estrella drifted into absence, Tony occupied his space with intentional precision. He wanted to be noticed but pretended he didn’t. Look closely, though, and you can see the need and desperation under a smooth exterior.

Jamaica found a seat within sight of Estrella. She wanted to observe her.

Estrella sat by the window, gazing outward. Tony slid in beside her, perfectly placed.

Just before the doors closed, a disheveled young man stumbled into the car. Thin but muscular, breathless, and slick with sweat. He collapsed into the nearest seat.

His scent hit Jamaica first—then Estrella, whose slight permanent smile tilted downward for a moment, breaking her usual composure. Tony angled himself away from the intrusion, as if odor could tarnish his image.

Inner Worlds

Jamaica wanted to move. The sweat-drenched newcomer sat just one row behind and to her right. But she was too captivated by Estrella to leave.

She absorbed everything about her from the curve of her nails to the subtle highlights in her hair. Jamaica took mental notes, imagining herself someday donning this calm, elegant, self-possessed sensuality.

Estrella sensed the attention. She gave it the barest nod of awareness while her gaze took in Jamaica’s ensemble—a sequin-lined skirt, sparkling blue lashes, silver-beaded knockoff heels.

Her expression remained unreadable, but inside, she felt a pang of discomfort. The bold colors. The overt femininity stitched over a masculine frame. It unsettled her.

Still, she swallowed her reaction and returned to the refuge of her numbed dissociation, drifting away from anything painful. Anything real.

Outer View

Tony scanned the car. How many people were looking at them? Not enough. This late train was mostly second-shifters, exhausted workaholics, and weekend partiers. No audience of note.

Still, he performed. He leaned into the part of doting husband, resting a hand lightly on Estrella’s knee.

She smiled—softly, distantly—looking at him but through him, like a ghost. He patted her hand, then sat back, fingers clasped in a show of composed importance.

The young man glanced up, catching Tony’s gesture. Not with curiosity, but anxiety. He was trying to stay cool. Just be cool. Be cool. Be cool.

His breath was shallow and quick. His heart wouldn’t slow. He’d run all the way from the southeastern projects into the city’s core and web of trains and strangers.

His mind flashed back to the call from Kemal that afternoon:

“I can’t go back there, man. They’ll kill me. And if they see you with me, you’re dead too.”
“Just help me out. Please. I ain’t got no one else. Meet me at Minnesota at 7. Cool?” 

“Cool,” Vincenté had said. He hadn’t wanted to, but he owed him. He owed Kemal his life.

Disbursed

Jamaica refocused on her own reflection. She took out her mirror again and adjusted her wig, applied the final touch of lip stain, and shifted her skirt just enough to show off her long, runner’s legs.

She sat up straighter, humming softly.

“Next stop: Dupont Circle,” came the conductor’s voice.

The train jerked. She stumbled slightly, then regained her footing.

The doors opened. She stepped off with a strut, savoring the freedom in her stride.

Tony and Estrella felt a wave of relief at her exit. Brief. Then gone.

Estrella returned her gaze to the window, to the illusion of stillness as lights swept by in flashes.

Tony leaned in. “We’ll get off at Tenleytown,” he said.

She nodded, eyes now assessing the metro map.

Four more stops.

She exhaled and sank into the rhythm of the passing lights. For a little while longer, she didn’t have to pretend.

Next Stop

“Next stop: Tenleytown.”

“Estrella, ready? Everyone’s looking forward to seeing you. Hold still—your collar’s cockeyed.”

Tony adjusted it. She let him. It was easier that way.

He stood, offering his hand to help her up. A gentleman, on paper. One hand at her waist, the other on the rail.

She took one last glance out the window as the lights began to slow.

“Doors opening on your right.”

They stepped off. Hand in hand. Picture-perfect.

Blood

Vicenté didn’t notice them leave. He didn’t care who got on or off. His mind was somewhere else—racing as fast as his heart.

His thoughts returned back to earlier.

Minnesota Avenue.

Four hours ago.

Kemal was on the corner—boxed in by two guys from their old gang. Former Bloods. Tension hung thick in the humid air.

As the train pulled in, Vincenté spotted Kemal’s face. Desperate and wide-eyed. He motioned a slight nod, chin lifted. A signal: Don’t come.

They used that signal before. But this time… it was different. There was no swagger in Kemal’s eyes. Just resignation.

Vincenté froze on the threshold. The doors stayed open for a moment. Then they began to close.

Instinctively, he stepped back inside.

As the train pulled away, he slammed his fists against the doors.

“Nooo! Noooo!”

One last glimpse of Kemal.

Then—POP.

Vincenté knew that sound.

The car grew quiet.

“Last stop on the Red Line,” the conductor said.

Vincenté didn’t move.