beijing train

I wish that I could have taken a picture of them. Standing opposite me on the other side of the closed subway doors, they could have walked out of a Chagall painting. It was the way he held her: one arm draped over her shoulder cutting a diagonal line across her chest, his hands clasped together where her ribs tapered into her waist, enfolding her in an awkward embrace. Her curved back rests into his chest, hands hang limply at her sides, jutting out slightly where his arms hold her. She has blank innocent eyes, open wide yet downcast, filled with the kind of emptiness that can tell inexplicable stories. Her faintly highlighted hair falls in wispy layers about her pale round face above her purple coat. He is only slightly taller, dark hair curling slightly at the temple and above the forehead. His high-collared jacket is army green, and though he absently caresses her stomach, neither of them look at each other. My downcast eyes rest on the nubbly texture of her coat and the wrinkled green streak that cuts across purple. The train rumbles into the next station; they walk out of the open doors hand in hand.