The Girl in Last Night’s Dress

• A sleepy reflection on everyday voyeurism, speculation, and the stories that make us miss our own stop.

Early in the morning, on a swaying subway train, you notice a girl sitting by the window in an evening dress — and it’s immediately clear these are last night’s clothes, last night’s dress. Black, tight, already a little crumpled, twisted slightly around her torso — the straight seam no longer tracing the side of her body, but bending into a visible curve.

What comes to mind — as it does to anyone else on that train — is that this morning she had no wardrobe of her own, that she definitely didn’t sleep at home. And judging by the worn-out makeup and the unruly hair (despite all sleepy attempts to tame it), she probably hadn’t planned it that way.

You imagine the lingering taste of alcohol in her mouth, the sharp sting in tired eyes under the flicker of fluorescent lights.

She glances at you, just briefly, a little shyly, and sees that you are watching her. She surely knows that you know. And you know that she knows that you know. And if you are even a little gallant, you’ll spare her any smirk or gesture, spare her any judgment, simply turn your eyes away and let the moment run its course, dissolve into time.

But thoughts are relentless, the wheels in your head spinning with the same relentlessness as the train rushing forward along the rails ahead.

Hopefully it was a good evening.

Hopefully it was a good night.

Hopefully without an unpleasant aftermath.

Hopefully no disappointment follows.

Hopefully she remembers it all. Because overthinking can be the cruelest trick the mind plays in moments like this.

And then it hits you that you’re speculating too. Building a narrative out of a handful of clues, filling in the blanks with dramatic details, because we humans simply crave drama. We like it when a story can be spiced up a little (or a lot).

You look around and notice the others are speculating as well. Some whisper, some don’t even bother to whisper. Some don’t care. Someone has been there too, recalling their own story — maybe, maybe not more dramatic than whatever last night held for the girl in the black dress.

Her head is bowed, waiting almost meditatively for her stop. Surely she’s longing for a shower, for the chance to slip into clean clothes. In my mind I already see her in a loose cotton T-shirt and airy linen pants. And in shoes that are easy to slip off.

Or maybe she’ll go straight into pajamas and sleep through the rest of the day.

Maybe. Most likely.

Maybe we all speculate too much.

Maybe it’s all the fault of those shows and their overblown storylines.

Maybe she was simply at a party that went too long. When you’re with the right people, sometimes you just don’t know when to stop. But as I’ve already said — maybe I’m just overthinking it. Meanwhile, the train reaches her station. She stands, wavers slightly — perhaps just from exhaustion — and steps out. Disappearing into the crowd.

It dawns on me that I’ve been speculating far too much — and missed my own stop. The doors close, and the train lurches back into motion.

That’s how it goes — you watch someone else’s story, while your own quietly slips away.