Block the Door in Carriage 9

August. All passenger transport was pure hell.** It was the infernal week of the Romanian railways. Delays, nervous caps, full-on CFR-style tantrums. I had been awake since 4 a.m. My boyfriend had managed to piss me off even in his sleep, tossing around like a Lipovan Russian dancing the kazachok. We had to leave the Delta. We had bought ferry tickets online — for nothing. The boat never came, thanks to a wedding. So we had to take a slow passenger boat, paid with my money. Of course. He had spent the rest of his cash on beer. We got only standing spots, and a blonde kid decided to show us how well he could sing “Santa Claus with Snowy Hair.” Very well. Ten times. Without a single mistake. Cows were swimming around us, entirely indifferent to the nautical route. By the time we arrived in Tulcea, the world was spinning around me. Our luggage had been tossed everywhere, and my dear life partner was trying to cheer me up by pointing out the positive aspects of our vacation. I was tanned like a corn vendor. All the market ladies gave me discounts, “for our sister.” Cristi had booked a boat ride at sunset, just for the two of us. And the sailor. Turns out the sailor was the only soul from southern Romania I’d ever had a fling with—and not the innocent kind. Sex in a boat next to a Georgian wreck. At sunset, because I had standards back then too. What were the odds of running into the one guy from the south I had slept with during a bout of hormonal stupidity? I even caught a UTI so bad I was clawing the bathroom tiles after. And they say saltwater is healing! My boyfriend didn’t share my perspective. He was a beer-bellied coder, while the Sulina captain looked like a Greek god in beach flip-flops and a tight T-shirt stretched over Viking-weightlifter arms. I felt like throwing up the strong coffee I’d made in a tiny pot at 3 in the morning. We dragged our bags to the station. “Let’s find the luggage storage room!” I suggested. “Why?” Cristi asked, as if I’d proposed playing hide and seek with Elodia in the park. I leaned what used to be a wheeled trolley against a bench and explained with full glory: “Because we have five hours until the train leaves.” He scratched his head long enough to convince me he was trying to stimulate his neurons manually. “Why can’t we just stay in the station?” “Because this is a beautiful city, and I want us to explore it together.” He pulled out his phone and started watching videos with the volume all the way up. He couldn’t care less about my wishes. I looked around. I saw an old CFR employee come out of an office, dragging behind him a small, dainty bag—more suited for a woman with a perm than for him. “Good day, could you please tell me where the hand luggage room is?” “We don’t have one, miss! This is the end of the world—no tickets, no trains, nothing! You’ve got nowhere to leave them!” I followed him. “What about at the port or the bus station?” “We’ve got nothing there either, miss. This mayor stole everything. There’s nothing left. Leave while you still can and don’t ever come back—there’s no reason!” And he made his diva-style exit through the new automatic doors of the ultra-modern train station. A station where you can’t store your luggage. Cristi looked at me satisfied, choreographing his gaze across a crowd of TikTokers. “See?” I felt like punching him and watching his teeth fly out. Just imaginatively, not violently. I told him to watch the bags. I needed to relax. I couldn’t think with all that urine inside me. I went to the toilet. I searched for change. There was no one there. I could pee for free. I got into position. Even if the place was clean, I hovered. I remembered the slaps I got as a kid for sitting my butt on any toilet. I remembered the friend who got hepatitis from the old landlady she rented from. Granny hepatitis lips unfolding from the curlers of old age like tentacles on the toilet seat, spreading infections, piss, disease. I felt vomit in my throat. No. Not now. I peed and looked at the pad. Still nothing. It always came on time. Now it was ten days late. Not that I was counting like a maniac, but the giraffe in my app was screaming: “What’s up, you wild thing? You having fun? Forgot about me? Your period’s late, you little slut, huh?” Was it the water? Do I need to buy a test? I shook my head hard, chasing away the crazy thought. Me, a mom? Never. Although, honestly, I trusted Cristi more than a toilet in a train station. Which I shouldn’t. But it’s exhausting. *It’s tight, baby.* *It holds things back.* *It feels better without.* *I don’t have any left.* *Come on, let’s do it already, we’ve been together for years!* I’m just too paranoid. That’s not it. It’s the water. The damned salty water. Ten days isn’t much. Even if it’s only happened twice in your life that it didn’t come on time. And both times you had to go with Simona to a clinic. And take the pill. She stayed with you the whole day, like you were trying to pull out a fetus with a coat hanger under communism. It’ll come. You vomit in the toilet. Yellow. Where from? The coffee was black. Bile? Don’t know. Don’t want to know. I washed my face. Aside from the serial killer stare and a string of spit in the corner of my mouth, I actually looked good. I had a tan. My skin knows only two shades: cheese-white and Montreal-’76 bronze.