Station Eleven

by Emily St. John Mandel

Jeevan worked silently in the margarine light,

She is very soft-spoken. People are forever leaning in close to hear what she’s saying.

When he left a short time later he found himself wandering, even though by now he’d oriented himself and knew how to get back to the Tube station. Cold rain, the sidewalk shining, the shhh of car tires on

the wet street. Thinking about the terrible gulf of years between eighteen and fifty.

Something I’ve been thinking about, which will sound harsh and I’m sorry: you said you’d always be my friend but you’re not, actually, are you? I’ve only realized that recently. You don’t have any interest in my life.

I’m just stating a fact here: you’ll only ever call me if I call you first. Have you noticed that?

I always come to you. You always say you’re my friend but you’ll never come to me and I think I have to stop listening to your words,

How did we get so old, V.? I remember building forts with you in the woods when we were five. Can we be friends again? I’ve missed you terribly.

He comes to them, the moment already passed, and Jeevan lifts him into his arms to kiss the silk of his hair.