Anton Chekhov and I sit huddled together going north on brown line run 421. We watch the sharp corners of buildings trip by as the sun sinks, icy, in the distance. I reach into my pocket and pull out my cell phone, glancing at it to gauge the time. Anton sighs and leans away from me bracing against the cold metal wall. He hates my cell phone and refuses to get one of his own, which makes him impossible to get a hold of.

“Put that damned thing away and don’t stare Katja. It’s rude.” He has caught me again. I was searching a woman’s face for stories. She sits across from us. I was searching for something, something remarkable, but I didn’t find it.

“I wasn’t staring Anton. I was merely watching.”

“Katja, use your imagination. I tell you. Use it. When you get one glimpse that is all you need. One glimpse, and then you tell a story using, not her story, but one of your own. Pull it from your head. Pull it out and drop it onto the page. Maybe you need new ink. Would you like me to buy you some new ink?”

I smile, so happy he is here with me. I wonder if he will spend the night.

“Anton, are you going to spend the night?”

“Katja, don’t ask such foolish questions.”

I lean into him as we corner sharply and I can feel his body pressing back through layers, layers of leather and fur and they meet my layers, layers of polyester and micro fleece.

“Katja do you want to know how to craft a story? Do you really want to know?

“Oh, please Anton, please tell me how to craft a story.”

“It is simple actually.”

“Well tell me then. Tell me.” I am feeling giddy and I rub my hands together.

“Katja, always start with a man and a woman and always give them names.” I cuddle into him, crossing my legs towards him and letting our thighs touch. “Always give them a name.” I nuzzle my head against his shoulder listening intently. I can feel his chin moving, from time to time, against the top of my head as he talks and my hair keeps getting caught in his goatee.

“Give them a name and a place to stand or sit. Give them something to think about. Then give them something to do. And finally give them something to lose. Does that make sense? Does that make sense Katja?”

I nod my head, moving it silently against his shoulder.

“Katja, my darling, this is where I get off. Addison. This is my stop.”

“But Anton.” I feel tears creeping into the corners of my eyes.

“Goodbye Katja and good luck. I will send you some ink in the mail.”

“Can I call you?”

“Call me? How? No. I will see you when I see you.”

The doors slide open and the cold air hits my calves and then washes up and over my face. This is Addison; this is a Brown Line Train. Next Stop…but I have stopped listening and the doors close. I look at the woman across from me again, but this time just quickly. Just quickly, and I see something. Or I think I see something. I try not to stare. I can’t decide if I see something. So I keep staring.