She was late to come to meet me here. She leans toward me across a round and littered café table and hands me a pear. She knows my own bag is already full with apples. She says that, on her way here, the subway stalled somewhere in the dark in between stations. The smell beneath the ground was sharp. Her mind had wandered with the wait, along vague dark tunnels, tunnels of innumerable plans. She says that she had longed to get out and walk along the tracks, that she thought they would be easier to walk than our old railroad tracks - no unevenly spaced ties to contend with, no tar nor rough and shifting gravel.