Homeward
Pentagon City station was muggy, fetid, and dim as I disembarked from the southbound Blue Line train, the red glow of "12:07 AM" dully illuminating the desolate platform, reminding me of the time. Only one other exited the rail car, a woman in her sad years, shuffling towards the elevator, either too tired or too incapable of riding the escalator to the upper station. All the better, as I relished the solitude and preferred to travel alone, on foot, the rest of my journey. The station booth was empty, though a maintenance worker was on the far side of the area preparing for the long night's track work. He paid me no heed as I passed, moved automatically through the turnstile, and wended my way through the tunnel, up another shorter escalator, and through the lowest level of the Fashion Centre shopping mall.
The cavernous structure was weirdly silent, not even a custodian was visible in the vast food court or along the concourse. A flash of lightning briefly lit the sky above the atrium, making the place look for a moment like an eerie carnival, its freakish performers asleep for the night as I crept past their tents along the darkened midway. Passing through the parking garage this illusion was dispelled, but in its place another, that I was being watched, that any moment a dark sedan would appear around a distant bend and slowly move towards me, its lights off, its occupants occluded, menacing me in a way that reminded me of the words of the man on the bench.
As I rose to the street behind Pentagon Row the light rain shattered that fantasy also and I strode along in the wet, past the yet-to-be-completed ice skating rink that dominates the center of the plaza, past my usual neighborhood haunts, Tapeo, and across the street until my feet were once again safely on the River House property.
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