another excerpt & imagery

The subway can be tricky. I really do not like being under ground. I can usually get past it because every ride is always another unique, unpredictable experience. Once you get past the smell, and the fact that as soon as you submerge below the surface the phrase “personal space” no longer applies, then and only then does the show begin. I sit, or lean, or just stand with my arm up and watch. The only thing that pulls me away is the sunrise as the train goes over the bridge. Very few things can top that picture in my mind. One being the skyline against a darkened sky. It’s almost as if every time I see it I’m reminded of what it all means. Even though I haven’t the foggiest idea of what it all means. At any given moment I am surrounded by hundreds of people, and yet my anonymity remains. Every pair of eyes that falls upon me is doing so for the first, and most likely the last, time. I always find something soothing about that. Just now as I ponder this idea I am amused by the fact that all my indiscretions, all of my regret, all my sin does not exist to these people. I feel sorry for them now, they will never know my name, or hear me speak. I have a lovely voice too, or so I’ve been told. Or, maybe I should feel sorry for myself, for I will never know their names, or hear their voices.

She’s too big for the subway seats — wears plaid. Her collection of bangle bracelets’ taps and jingles with the movement of the vehicle. Her skin is the color of coffee with a splash of cream, not yet stirred. Her lips are plump, and fucsia, her hair could be fake but, it looks soft and the large curls peeking out from under her hat glisten a bit as we pass over the bridge and the sunlight pours in–she sleeps.

He’s perplexed by his phone–something is wrong. Maybe. He takes off the back, does nothing, puts it back on. Someone has received a message. He stares, at me, does he know? He couldn’t. The black speakers snug in his ears have him bobbing his head–his hair, dark, doesn’t move. He is wearing a collared shirt, blue. He has slits for eyes that in slow motion, rise and fall, on beat perhaps. His head is tilted to the right as his eyes clench–maybe he’ll fall. It’s not far just a foot or two.

She has acrylic nails–taps the pole. Her lipstick is too dark for her fair skin–it looks like it would never come off. Her hair is thin and an amber color that I don’t think occurs naturally. She yawns, the day is coming to a close. Another one gone. The diamond on her finger sparkles, even in this fluorescent wonderland–it’s large. It may be real, it may be fake. She too has little black speakers in her ears. I imagine something calm flowing into her brain–her yawns are consistent–she starts a trend. I join in.

His head drops farther. Shoulders now. I hope he falls.


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