fourteen
14. (9/27/2009)
subway sonata part one the first in a series of many
the orange line.
Twelve thirty PM.
there are five people seated on a small subway car.
An Asian woman sleeps.
A homeless man behind her talks to himself about the weather.
About the Baltimore orioles.
About the Washington nationals.
About the computer chip in his fillings.
About the cavities he needs to fill that he never will because he knows it will just mean more computer chips.
On the other side of the car is a man wearing headphones.
Repeating rhythm.
Repeating rhythm.
Thumping bass. The entire car can hear it.
He nods along with the
Repeating rhythm.
Repeating rhythm.
A woman next to him with a suitcase returns from a business trip.
She has a suitcase that she can roll behind her. Always following her. Close by. It’s comforting for her to think that so long as she holds onto the handle she won’t have to worry about losing anything. It reminds her of a dog but she doesn’t like to think about dogs because she’s not allowed to have one in her apartment but if she was allowed, shed have two. Maybe three.
She is barren.
Next to her is a college student. Tight jeans. Tight plaid shirt. Glasses. White earbuds.
He reads a novel:
The unbearable lightness of being.
Heart of darkness.
Love in the time of cholera.
Deaths of Man.
There is nothing connected to the headphones. He wears them just so no one bothers him. He wears them so no one speaks to him about the weather or the orioles or the nationals or the computer chips in their fillings.
The train stops.
He closes his book.
Gets up.
Waits about ten seconds for the door to open.
He turns around as they do.
BING BONG
He exits.
Blackout.
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