ArtFlow

She almost didn't take the last train. The ride was long and it was late and she had work in the morning. But something made her stay — the city, the night, the feeling that going home meant the day was really over.
He sat across from her. Not next to her — across, which she appreciated. He was reading something on his phone and looked tired in a way that seemed familiar. They didn't speak for the first twenty minutes. Then the train jolted and her coffee went sideways and he handed her napkins without being asked and that was enough to start.
They talked the entire way. About the city, about work they weren't sure they believed in anymore, about a trip one of them had taken and the other had always wanted to. She found out he was funny in a quiet way — the kind of funny that sneaks up on you. He found out she had opinions about everything and wasn't apologetic about it.
His stop came before hers. He stood up, put on his jacket. She looked at her phone so it wouldn't be strange. He said it was nice to meet her. She said the same. He got off. The doors closed.
She watched the platform disappear and felt something she couldn't quite name — not regret exactly, more like the specific sadness of a good thing that was always going to be short. She didn't wish she'd given him her number. The conversation had been perfect. Some things are perfect because they end.