Red
By Jonathan Haeber

One day, on the subway, I saw this woman. She had long black hair, emerald eyes, and deep red lips. She was sipping a coffee, and on the lip of the cup was the impression of her lips in that ruby red hue. She also was reading the newspaper, and I could tell her favorite section was the obituaries.

In subsequent days, I watched this woman. I watched her every action. Call it voyeurism. Call it curiosity. I just felt like watching her. She didn't change much, but her actions did. One morning, instead of a coffee, she had a white chocolate mocha. I could tell by the odor that emanated from the cup. That day, I sat right across from her.

She seemed to notice that I was watching her, but didn't care really. I never said a word. It was a tacit agreement that her and I were in a symbiotic web. We were both getting something out of it. I'm not quite sure what she got from me. A cheap thrill? The excitement of being observed?
Anyways, each day, I got something new from her. When I saw her carrying a bag full double-dipped espresso beans, I knew she had expensive taste. On the way home once, she had a gift box. It was wrapped in Looney Tunes wrapper. She must have had kids, or at least a kid. That gift was for him or her, whatever the case was.

Then I watched her doing the crossword puzzle; it was the New York Times crossword. That's how I gathered she was intelligent, or maybe just had a knack for mind games. She finished by the time she got to the Richmond stop.

She had a nervous habit of shaking her left foot, but only when she was wearing high-heels and leggings. Other than that, she stood as still as a Grecian statue, often staring out the window looking towards the site of her work. Some days, on the way home, she fell asleep. Her breathing was heavy and rhythmic, but never resounding. In fact, it was rarely audible. I could just tell be the way she heaved her chest. With each breath passed a telephone pole on the horizon. Each breath matched perfectly with the rhythm of the passing poles.

People called her on her cell-phone. Most of the time it was her husband. Her husband was a fireman for the Livermore Department. He often told her about his day, some of them worse than others. He saved lives and was deeply affected when he couldn't. Most of the time, when he called, it was because he couldn't save one-- a life, that is.

Another man called too. I couldn't gather who he was at first. It couldn't have been her father, because her father called once a week, 6:59 PM sharp, as we were passing the 19th Street stop. Her father, Mark Englewood (she called him by his first name but said good bye using the word 'dad' saying: "I'll see you soon dad."), lived in Oregon. Mark was a fishing guide on the Rogue River.

Mark told his daughter about his adventures on the river.

She responded by saying how much she missed her past.

Her dad told her she should visit.

She told him that work was getting crazy and she couldn't take the time off.

It was back and forth. Her dad insisted that she should not make work her life.

"Mark," she said. "It's not going to kill me."

"It will slowly," He morosely said.

Then she nonchalantly attempted to end the call by saying: "Life is short, so anything that happens slowly doesn't matter in the end."

"It will be your end."

"I'll see you soon, dad."

"Love you. Don't overwork yourself."

Click.

When she finished she looked up at me, briefly. Just for a split-second. It was a look of recognition, that she could trust me with everything. That I would never tell. Who would I tell? Mark?
The next day, I found out just how much she trusted me. He was her workmate from the law firm. They were working on a big case together. It made big news in the headlines. He sat in my seat at first, but when the gray-haired man with the bowler hat left, and no one else was left in the car, he sat next to her. Under the guise of working together, they slowly got closer and closer. Then he kissed her, and his lips got covered in the red lipstick.

I never really understood why he kissed her. I didn't understand why she wore that red lipstick. But her husband, the fireman, was a good man. He didn't deserve to be oblivious to it. She trusted me, though, and for that reason I never told.

The case they were working on made the 11 o'clock news, but it was one of those headlines that would be advertised as a feature, and wouldn't be shown until 11:59 so people would watch the rest of the news. The 11:59 news said that it was a textbook modern mafia case. The guy she was defending honestly deserved to die, and the news of the day was that he pleaded guilty to nine counts of manslaughter, drug trafficking, and soliciting sex.

I found out the next day, from the two lovers, that he didn't want to plead guilty. He said he was innocent, but they convinced him to plead guilty. It was in his "best interest" that they convince him. He, her workmate, didn't want to. The gray-haired man in the bowler hat seemed to be listening intently. Then she said, "Ron," (that was her lover's name.) "We would have lost the case if he plead not-guilty. It would have looked bad for the firm. We could have been fired. It would have been murder Ron. They would have killed us in that courthouse. Ford--" (she worked at a firm named Ford and Taylor; it was on most of the letterhead she read.) "-- Ford wanted me to quickly end this case. It's bad publicity for the firm, and it's a no-win situation."

"And the plea bargain. The sentence?" Ron interrogated.

"It doesn't look too hot, but it's the best we could do."

"Tell me."

"73 years with the possibility of parole. Even with the best of behavior, parole board won't release
him until '89."

"Christ. You're right. We need to sacrifice the case for our own good. It's in the best interest of the firm. We need to make sure this case is never resurrected."

The man with the bowler hat was beeping. Must have been a pager.

We passed the West Oakland station. The clock read 6:57. The train was earlier than normal.
Ron kissed her on the neck. She looked to the ceiling in ecstasy. She kissed him on the neck too, but got some of her lipstick on his white Versage collar.

My watch read 6:59. Mark called, as usual. She answered.

The man in the bowler hat opened a black briefcase. Ron wasn't watching. I was though. I was always watching, and for some strange reason, I knew that the man in the bowler hat would pull out a gun and fire upon Ron and the woman.

We exited the transbay tube and came out of the water. The light returned to reveal the two lovers mired in a puddle of ruby red anima.

Her phone was lying right at my foot. The front was facing up. It started to ring to the tune of Shostokovich. Caller ID showed it was her husband. The train reached Embarcadero. In ran the entourage of firemen who just received word of the martyr.

The phone rang again. It was her husband again. I picked it up and before I could say a word he said: "For Christ's Sake! I thought you were dead."

Just then, a fireman walked into the train with a cell phone against his ear. He looked down at his dead red wife in amazement, then he looked up at me as I showed him the cell-phone and saw his fears become white.

"Rose!" The fireman yelled.

His noble Rose was withered. The man was destroyed. His life was now useless; blank like a clean sheet of printing paper. Then he looked down at Ron. As he took off Ron's Versage to begin work on the bullet wound, he saw the lipstick on the man's collar. He knew it was his wife's. Hell, he'd seen it every day of his married life right before he left for work.

Well, Ron was still alive. The flames of hatred were not burning the fireman's body, but he wanted to complete the job; he wanted to finish what the black briefcase and bowler hat started. The woman's husband reached into the EMT box lying in the puddle of blood. He took a syringe and some Morphine, filled the syringe with about 900 milligrams of the drug, and injected the dying lawyer with the lethal dose.

The fireman filled the same syringe with the same amount and intravenously drugged himself to death. Around midnight the fireman was pronounced dead, and my stint as observer in the life of the woman with red lipstick was over.