Commute

Tonight on the subway home a woman pushed me out of the way so she could get the seat I was headed for.  Whatever works.

I did get a seat next to a girl who was huddled in a puffy jacket — only her eyes were visible — and I couldn’t tell if she knew the man on the other side of her, but he talked to her nonstop nonetheless.  He was bragging about how he smoked a joint right in front of a cop and the cop didn’t say anything.  That was a triumphant moment for him; he was on a high; he was high.  Oh, and his breath was revolting.  Maybe that’s why she was so zipped up.

Behind me a straight couple was arguing about who had more bags to carry.  Even though she refused to accept defeat, the woman kept putting her arm around the man and stroking his neck, and each time she did this she’d elbow me in the head.

Seated across from me was a woman with a suitcase who was crying.  She had a finger in the new Barbara Kingsolver book, holding her place.  I couldn’t help but watch her, imagine what was making her cry.  Maybe she was coming back into town after a funeral, or maybe someone was rude to her on the Amtrak, or maybe she was slowly moving out of a lover’s apartment.  Or maybe the middle section of Barbara Kingsolver’s new book is just that good.