Excerpt from "The Tuesday Evening Train" - Los Angeles Review, Fall 2015 November 5, 2016 Nina Boutsikaris Once the train pulls away the market is quiet for nearly an hour. I dust wine bottles and drink coffee alone. I hold a mug in both hands until my warmth takes all its warmth away. I think about the boy with the dead mother. I think about how we do that, how our bodies pull the heat from other objects until those objects are cold. The adiabatic cooling of touch, of a substance decreased as it does work on its surroundings. And imagine, how hot the liquid must feel to the air.I bite my lips until they are hard and ridged on the inside like wet dunes at low tide. And then there is my watch, and the wind, which I do and don’t ignore.