Ghosts Ride The Train Too

She was magnificent.

She was tall in a way that most people aren't.  She had that long-boned grace that you get from wearing breezy linen dresses in the sun and eating figs and strong tea on a beach at sunrise.  She had very short hair, cropped close to her scalp.  She had huge, captivating eyes and a smile that said "you're beautiful".

She asked with a nod if she could sit next to me.  She smelled like vanilla and coffee and fresh baked bread.
She carried nothing, no purse or bag.  She had a single pocket on her billowing white shirt in which she stowed her well-used metro pass.

Her knuckles clicked with delicate gold rings and there were multiple golden hoops dangling languidly down the curves of her ears.

She was ageless and she was all of time put together in a a breath.

Her hair was a silvery bronze and the lines in her face betrayed more experience than withering age.  She might have told me that she was a thousand years old, and I'd have accepted it as the truth without a second thought.

We sat together on the train, wordlessly full of our own thoughts.  She spoke to nobody.  Nobody tried to speak to her.

When her stop was nigh (the one right before mine), she caught my eyes with hers and grinned excitedly.  She patted my hands, which were resting on my lap.

Her touch was warm and gentle and kitten-y soft.  Thrills of peace shot straight up my arm.  She was going someplace special.  She shared that with me.  She stood, moved effortlessly out of the train, and then strode confidently onto the platform on her way to something perfectly amazing.

Pure sunlight filled me and made my cheeks hurt and my eyes ache and I'd have sobbed like an infant with heartache if I hadn't been surrounded by so many other people.

Had anyone else noticed her?

Had anyone else even seen her?