Window Reflection

I felt it before I saw it—

the weight of attention, the way

her eyes didn't move, didn't blink,

didn't have the decency to look away

when I caught her in the window reflection.

On the train, metal and fluorescent light,

and she was staring like I owed her something,

like she'd recognized me as someone

I'd been trying to forget,

or someone she'd wronged, or just

someone worth studying, worth the sustained

attention of a stranger who didn't know

how to stop.

I looked down at my phone.

I looked at the advertisement for divorce lawyers.

I looked anywhere but back,

but I could still feel her, could still see

her face reflected in the glass,

waiting for me to break, to turn,

to acknowledge that I knew

she was watching.

The train pulled into my stop.

I stood careful not to brush against her,

and I could feel her eyes following me

all the way to the door, probably

all the way down the platform,

because people like that don't stop,

they just keep looking until you give them

a reason to.

I never did.