Leaving Berlin

Henry had already boarded the dark green Pullman. On the platform, Ingrid’s gaze caught the straight-edge evenness of the tan, canvas shades drawn to eye level on each of the car’s windows; every dangling pullring staring back like cyclopean minions. A thousand days would likely pass until their next rendezvous. Henry lifted his palm to his nostril, Ingrid’s lavender lingered along its length. A small girl peered back over Henry’s yellowed cane seat… her eyes made his mist bittersweetly.