NYC Life · prose · writing

Subway

A single strand of long blonde hair dangles from the ceiling of the subway car. I wonder to myself how this rogue hair got there. Did a 12 foot behemoth of a woman bump her head? Did someone place it there festively like a strand of icicle tinsel? My thoughts lazily bounce back and forth the length of the subway car, whirring recklessly like a bumblebee caught in a jar.

Harsh fluorescent lights cast dark, sickly shadows under commuters’ eyes. Vacant eyeballs are pressed into their sunken sockets and smudged with anemic, thumbprint bruises underneath.

It’s completely overcast today, but a few are still wearing sunglasses inside the car. No one looks flattering in this light: a train car full of trendy, suburbanite zombies. Braaaaaaaiinnns. 

A man eyes me quite openly. I pretend not to see. Meanwhile, other riders stare at each other’s shoes with salty looks, languidly glancing away when they accidentally meet the wearer’s gaze.

Someone passes gas. Everyone shifts uncomfortably as eyes flick around room trying to locate the perpetrator. People make melodramatic faces to assure others it wasn’t them. A woman breathes into her scarf for some reprieve.

 

Image: Flickr, m01229 Creative Commons

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One thought on “Subway

  1. I like the picture… Long exposure. Yeah! Subways are dismal! That’s because there’s no scenery but walls. Montreal’s walls have cartoons on them that animate as the train moves. I think they should all have TV sets, or maybe a magazine rack… Good discription though! It definately puts you in the picture. Now I remember why I never liked riding on subway trains, Brings me back a few years! Cool post!

    Like

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