Read Online Problems by Jade Sharma - Free Book Online Page A

fun.”
    The train would have made a great target for a terrorist attack. It was packed.
    â€œI don’t think we’ll be able to sit together,” I said as we slowly made our way through the car.
    â€œShouldn’t we at least check the next car?”
    â€œWe could, but what’s the point?” I said, eyeing the car for an empty seat by the window. There wasn’t one. I collapsed in an aisle seat. Peter stood there like a wounded child. A woman in the next aisle stood up and offered him the window seat next to her.
    I closed my eyes. If there was a bomb, it would be so fast. What would I feel? Probably heat and pain, and then nothing. It could happen any second. The train started bumping along. No such luck. Mom, in that big house in the suburbs slowly wasting away, always complaining of her failing body. The thought of a quick death didn’t seem like the worst thing. Age is meaner than death.
    There were trees and sky, and the city receded farther and farther behind us. Another world. It was hot. I wanted to take off my coat. I thought that ten more times before I actually took it off. I’d worn my denim skirt and a red blouse. At home in front of the mirror, sucking in my stomach, it had looked elegant, but as I sat there, my fat rolls pushing against the elastic of my skirt and falling over the top button, it felt awful. My stomach growled. The worst was to feel both fat and hungry.
    Peter came over. “Want to go to the dining car?”
    â€œYeah, okay.”
    The only thing Suboxone didn’t help with was the sweats. The back of my head and neck were wet.
    The windows were huge, and the air felt easier to breathe. We sat in a booth.
    â€œCan you buy me a bottle of water?” I asked him.
    â€œI only have two singles.”
    â€œJust use your card.”
    â€œI don’t know if they take cards.”
    â€œFor Chrissake, Peter, go and check. I’m dying of thirst.” He got up. Cheap bastard. Never wanted to spend a penny. He rolled his own cigarettes and refilled my old water bottles to take with him everywhere, even though he made good money. When we’d first met, he worked in the bookstore as a merchandiser and made next to nothing. “I make everything pyramid shaped,” he’d said on our first date. What good was all that nagging to get a better-paying job if he still refused to spend a dime? “But we’re making more money,” I would say. “Yeah, well, we need to save it.” I’d asked a million times but never really understood what we were saving for. He came back with a brown box and a can of beer, a bottle of water, two packs of M&M’s, and chips. He sat down in front of me. His eyes, as innocent and guilty as a child’s, tried to gain my forgiveness.
    â€œI had to spend at least ten dollars to use my card,” he explained.
    â€œOh, thanks,” I said. He was trying to be nice.
    â€œAre you mad?”
    â€œYou were just being so awful this morning.” All morning, bustling around like a maniac, sighing and cursing to himself. Annoying the shit out of me.
    â€œI’m sorry. I just get so anxious. Can we please just try to be nice to each other? I don’t want to have a bad time.” As if I did? That was the implication, that I wanted everyone to be miserable. He popped open the Bud and took a long sip. Great , I thought, just drink. Go be fucked-up in your world, and leave me here alone to deal with reality .
    Lily Tomlin once said, “Reality is a crutch for people who can’t cope with drugs.”
    â€œOkay, well, don’t act like a jerk,” I said.
    â€œCan we please just watch The Simpsons on the laptop?”
    He opened the laptop while I looked out the window, trying to decide whether or not to let him off the hook. My brain was tired. The sky looked so open outside of New York, not just above, but all around. A few brown trees, open fields. People were always