'Crosstown

short fiction

In the days that followed, Henry and Victoria slipped seamlessly back into the machinery of their separate lives; the night they shared together was a shadow in their minds, shapeless yet persistent. Though her scent lingered in his apartment and his touch echoed in her thoughts, they carried on as before.

Mornings found Henry returning to the roar of trading floors, the tickers racing in rhythmic chaos. Victoria buried herself in the world of commodities arbitrage.

“It wasn’t love,” a coworker whispered, leaning casually over the partition between desks. The words struck Henry like a hammer, too close to thoughts he hadn’t dared articulate. “What?” he asked sharply, masking his surprise.

“What’s your take on copper futures?”

Henry latched onto the question like a lifeline. “Oh, um, yeah, go for it. No, wait. Weak," he said quickly. "Too much volatility. Avoid it."

Nights unraveled in similar patterns. Henry attended after-work drinks with colleagues, his laughter louder than needed, his gaze fixed too long on his phone, daring it to light up.

More than enough time passed, and Henry finally decided to text.

Across town, Victoria lost her phone when she stepped off a curb without looking. A taxi screeched only a few feet from hitting her. The driver shouted something, but it was muffled by the rush of blood in Victoria’s ears. Her phone fell into the gutter and was flattened by the taxi pulling away.

Henry’s text was never received.

Later that night, Victoria sat silently at a friend’s gathering. The conversation around her was polished and brittle. “It was just one night,” a male friend randomly blurted between laughter. “What?” Victoria asked.

“It’s Victoria, right? We’re getting together at Charley’s next week. Are you coming?”

“Oh! Sure! What did you mean by … what you said before … what did you mean by that? It was just one night.”

“I’m not sure I’m following.”

A long pause sat between them before he winked and smiled.

“Hold that thought; I’ve got to make a call. I’ll be back!”

It wasn’t just one night, Victoria reminded herself. There were weeks leading up to it—plans made and broken, missed connections, and hesitant beginnings that never quite took shape. And yet now, it all seemed distilled into that single night as though the rest had been erased. It wasn’t just one night. Was it? Or maybe it was.

Perhaps it was all a mistake.

---

Henry lit a cigarette as he ducked from the rain beneath a dim streetlamp near Broome Street; he wandered the same streets he wandered with Victoria, tracing invisible paths in the cobblestones as though the city itself might let out a secret or replay the night they met.

From a distance, he saw—or at least, he thought he saw—Victoria. She was walking arm-in-arm with a tall, well-dressed man, her head tilted back in laughter. The rain blurred his vision, but the unmistakable silhouette and figure had her confident stride. For a moment, Henry felt a pang—jealousy? Regret? Or the bitter realization that their connection had been less rare than he’d imagined?

Henry’s jealousy lingered, sharper than it had any right to be. He knew—knew—it wasn’t her. But still, the image dug in, refusing to let go. His mind worked against him, conjuring possibilities: Had she found someone? Did it matter if she had? He told himself it was a relief he felt—freedom to let their night fade. But deep down, the pang insisted otherwise.

Victoria, who had finally gotten a new cell, was at an event across town a few days later when she spotted Henry—or someone who looked eerily like him. He was seated at a café across the street, leaning close to a striking redhead. Victoria froze, the cold certainty washing over her that he had moved on, and perhaps he’d done so quickly.

Victoria, too, couldn’t shake the vision. The man she’d seen wasn’t Henry. But her heart leaped at the thought, just long enough to betray her.

Why did the idea of him moving on leave her so hollow? She had told herself their night was a mistake—too much honesty, too much risk. Yet, watching his supposed double with the redhead, she felt exposed again, as if she’d been seen and discarded all at once.

Was it a trick the heart was playing on the mind? Or something darker? It wasn’t until a week later that the truth unraveled.

A gallery opening in Tribeca, hosted by a mutual acquaintance neither particularly liked but couldn’t quite avoid. The room hummed with the soft chatter of a crowd too beautiful and too bored for their own good.

Victoria saw Henry first. He stood near a cluster of abstract sculptures, a glass of something amber in his hand, his posture effortless but watchful. She hesitated; her instinct was to turn and leave, warring with the pull to stay. What if he’d seen her? What if he hadn’t?

Henry caught sight of Victoria. He smiled at her, albeit slight and unreadable. Not quite an invitation, not quite indifference. He then raised his glass in a muted acknowledgment, and she nodded back, her face carefully composed. The distance between them yawned like a canyon, yet Henry crossed it anyway.

“How’ve you been?”

“I’ve been good.”

“Good. I texted, you know.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. Might have been soon after.”

“I apologize; I had to replace my phone. I wasn’t getting messages for a few days.”

“Oh.”

“I would have texted back had I received it.”

“Not a big deal. By the way, I thought I saw you last week,” Henry said suddenly, his voice low enough to slip beneath the gallery hum. He swirled the drink in his hand, watching it instead of her.

Victoria’s breath hitched, but she recovered quickly. “Funny. I thought I saw you too.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, the masks slipped.

“It wasn’t me,” he said, and there was something in his tone—a confession or a challenge she couldn’t decide.

“Wasn’t me either,” she replied, quiet but steady.

The gallery’s host approached then, all false warmth and air kisses interrupting whatever might have been said. Victoria excused herself first, disappearing into the crowd with a quick, enigmatic smile. Henry stayed behind, watching her go, his grip tightening on his glass.

Soon after, Victoria left the gallery without saying goodbye. Her steps were brisk and purposeful, though her mind was anything but. Perhaps she was embarrassed for having doubted Henry, for letting herself believe in the illusion of the man at the café. Or possibly she didn’t care. Maybe it wasn’t even about him at all. It was about what he represented—someone she could want but not keep, someone who might as well be with someone else if he wasn't with her. The city didn’t tolerate attachments, not ones that demanded freedom. New York wanted its inhabitants tethered, restless, and wary of permanence.

As she walked, the streets, narrow corridors of light and shadow, folded into one another. Her shoes clicked against the pavement, a rhythm that matched her spiraling thoughts. What did he mean when he said “not a big deal”?

She told herself it had only been one night. One night she might have turned into something larger in her own mind. But wasn’t that her own fault? Or was it Henry’s? He’d been so... magnetic. Easy to like. Hard to pin down.

The truth gnawed at her: she had enjoyed that night. Too much, perhaps. It wasn’t just how his hand had lingered on hers or how he’d looked at her. It was the way the city had felt different when she was with him, less sharp, more alive. That kind of freedom—of slipping the mask, even briefly—felt dangerous. She’d let herself believe in it, and now she was paying the price.

When she reached her apartment building, she stopped outside the door, staring at her reflection in the glass. She wondered if Henry had noticed the flicker in her expression when she left, the brief crack in her façade.

Henry, meanwhile, stayed at the gallery longer than he wanted, his mind replaying her words, her face. When he finally left, he told himself it was just a coincidence that he turned down Broome Street, his steps slow and hesitant as he walked the same path he and Victoria walked that night they were together.

---

Several months later, Henry was riding the subway on his way somewhere.

Henry glanced up from his phone just as Victoria stepped through the sliding doors. Her coat was a familiar shade of camel, the polished leather bag on her arm unmistakable. She saw him too, and for a moment, their eyes met across the sea of shuffling passengers. Neither smiled.

The train lurched forward, throwing her slightly off balance before she steadied herself, gripping the silver pole near the door. He stood further down the car, hand in his pocket, knuckles whitening against the leather handle of his briefcase.

“Victoria,” he said, his voice cutting through the tinny hiss of the intercom announcing the next stop.

“Henry,” she replied, her tone clipped but not cold. A nod. Polite, reserved.

“Heading downtown?” he asked. His question felt awkward, like a stranger's small talk despite everything.

“Yes, ‘crosstown, actually,” she said simply. “You?”

“Same. Well, downtown.”

The train jostled, and they both swayed with the motion. Around them, commuters stared into phones, earbuds sealing off their private worlds. The hum of the tracks grew louder as the train barreled through the tunnel.

For a moment, neither spoke. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, and the smell of damp wool and metallic air filled the car.

“How have you been?” he asked finally, his voice lower, almost drowned by the rhythmic clatter of the train.

“Fine,” she said, her eyes flicking to a nearby advertisement for some subscription service she didn’t care to read. “Busy.”

“Same,” he echoed, but his tone betrayed a hesitation, a word he almost swallowed.

The train slowed, the lights flickering briefly as they pulled into the next station. The doors opened with a pneumatic sigh, and a rush of cold air swept in. A few passengers shuffled out, but neither of them moved.

“Well,” she said, adjusting her bag. Her eyes scanned his face briefly, too briefly. “Good to see you.”

“Good to see you too,” he replied, but she was already looking toward the closing doors, her expression unreadable.

The train moved again, and as the city blurred past the windows, Henry stood still, his shoulders tight against the invisible weight of what hadn’t been said. Across the car, Victoria stared at her reflection in the glass. The tunnel lights flickered over her face, fragmenting her features like pieces of a puzzle that no longer fit.

Both were headed somewhere. Their paths further apart than ever.

---

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Welcome to Michael’s Newsletter. Writer of contemporary political/social commentary, parodies, parables, satire. Michael was born and raised in New York City and has a background in theater and film. His plays have been staged in New York, London, Boston, and Los Angeles.

Michael also writes short literary fiction. Below is a link to his first collection.

FLATIRON and other tall tales

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