Stop 1: Gallery Place-Chinatown

The metro ride home was more crowded than usual on the day that I died. Resting my head on the window beside me, I couldn’t help but feel guilty as I watched an elderly Asian woman board the train and stand by the doors. I struggled to find a comfortable position for my head against the window, and I continued to watch the woman as she threw accusatory glances towards the indifferent businessman seated in front of her.

“Step back, doors opening. When boarding, please move to the center of the car.”

Pushing my backpack onto my lap, I squinted and tried my best to make out the current stop on the red LED monitor towards the middle of the train car. No luck. Crowds of passengers made their way on and off the red line as the train came to a stop, obscuring the monitor from view. After a while, my eyes made their way back to the doors, and I watched a group of young professionals fight their way inside, each furiously sending emails with one hand and pushing with the other.

When I boarded the train, I was not aware that I was going to die that day. Yet there was no denying that the pressure of the air around me was different as I made my way to the station. Perhaps it was the fact that it was the first rainy day of April in D.C. and I was feeling nostalgic. Or maybe it was simply the fact that I was going home from work unusually early. Whatever it was, I could feel it following me, tenderly breathing down the nape of my neck as I made my way to my seat.

“You can be so useless sometimes. You know that?”

My eyes pushed past the woman fast asleep next to me to the young couple seated across the aisle from us.

“I keep looking at you and thinking about how I could do so much better.”

The woman, dark-haired and wearing a neon pink raincoat, crossed her arms violently and turned to face the window. “I’m done talking to you.”

Upon hearing this, her partner, a muscular man in his early 30s wearing a Washington Nationals baseball cap and t-shirt, sighed and threw his face into his overly large hands. I felt a sense of guilt again — this time for allowing myself to intrude on what was clearly a private argument. After a moment, the man looked up and briefly glanced my way. He turned his baseball cap backward in frustration and then began staring blankly ahead.

“You can be so useless sometimes. You know that?”

“I keep looking at you and thinking that I could do so much better.”

The woman’s words ran through my mind like a load of laundry, spinning in a never-ending cycle.

“I never really thought you were the one for me anyways.”

A new but familiar voice rang in my head. Slowly, it drowned out the woman’s words, as the laundry cycle in my mind grew faster.

“I’m happy you’re breaking up with me. To be honest, I’m not sure why I even dated you.”

Soak.

“I mean I liked you, but I wouldn’t tell my parents about you or anything.”

Rinse.

“You’re so annoying.”

Spin.

“Look, I know you’ve been sad and all because you were sexually assaulted or whatever, but everyone has problems.”

Repeat.

Suddenly, I am standing outside of a once familiar apartment door, my short dark hair dripping from the rain outside. From behind the doorframe a tall brooding figure examines the drained expression on my face.

“I want to break up, Peter,” I let out.

The figure furrows their brow and rubs their temples. For a moment it allows its face to express weakness before quickly composing itself and sighing.

“I never really thought you were the one for me anyways,” it says nonchalantly.

I look at the figure with the vulnerability of a child. It’s July of the previous year, and I’m standing outside of my now ex-boyfriend’s apartment. I’m back to the day we broke up.

“I know that you might be hurt,” I begin. “It’s really not about you. I’ve just been going through,” I pause. “A lot.”

“This again? Look, I know you’ve been sad and all because you were sexually assaulted or whatever, but everyone has problems. My parents are getting a divorce.”

“This again?”

I feel a wound form in my heart. Painfully, I count the times that I had mentioned the sexual assault to Peter.

One.

Two.

Three times. I had only mentioned it to him three times, always in passing and never in detail. Three times. And somehow that was too much? I had never felt so insecure before.

“That topic is outside the scope of this breakup,” I finally respond. “Can we please just talk about —.”

“Step back, doors opening. When boarding, please move to the center of the car."

As the overhead announcement blared across the loudspeaker, I was jolted out of my memories and back to the metro car. I turned back to the young bickering couple across the aisle, but they had already made their way to the train door. Disappointed, I squinted towards the red LED monitor which now read “METRO CENTER.” Closing my eyes, I rested my head against the window once more. Four more stops to go.

—​Contributing writer Javier Cifuentes Monzón’s column, “Woodley Park Station,” is a serialized work of fiction exploring the concept of vulnerability as it intersects with queer, immigrant and low-income identities.