The Jewish Bride

Even now,  on the train, Daphne couldn’t stop thinking about the woman in the painting — her aureole of crimped, light-brown hair, the expanse of pale ochre forehead, the slightly pudgy chin. Her dignity, the golden light, her sadness. The train made a little lurch as it started, a hiccup. Seated, miraculously, after their breathless run through the station, Daphne touched her husband on the arm. It was a big train, not the premium Euro-City Express, but solid, clean, right on schedule. Now she could let go, give herself to the liminal moment of departure, that moment in a public conveyance when the mind races with knowing that a totality, a world, has been left behind. Amsterdam, receding ever faster as the train picked up speed, would soon be as absent as home:  Westmont, Laurel Avenue. No matter: Daphne had the woman.