Parallel
((This is a drabble. Is that the correct term for something disgustingly short and inane? I believe I wrote this during some late-night binge of sleep deprivation. That's about the most explanation I can come up with for comparing Jack and Sam to rail lines.))
They were like parallel lines. Railroad tracks running side by side, knowing the other would always be there without ever having to acknowledge it.
Occasionally something would pluck them, as if they were strings on a cello, and the event, whatever it may have been, would cause them to vibrate, to brush into contact for the barest breath of a second. The repercussion would reverberate down the space between them, and for a time the air they occupied would be charged, dangerous, ready to shock them if they detoured from their route. For a time they would be painfully aware of the other's presence. Close enough to touch and yet so far away.
But eventually all echoes die, and the wavering images would again resolve into two straight, unshakable lines, their sight firmly set on what was ahead.
The horizon.
Where all lines appear to converge.
Even railroad tracks.
They didn't know they were parallel. They thought that there would be an eventually, a someday when they could deviate from the straight and narrow. Their lines would finally touch and cross, and their rigid lives would know what it was to have angles and curves.
But, by definition, parallel lines are straight. They continue into infinity.
Side by side.
Never touching.