Wednesday, April 10, 2013

She Wasn't Even Talking to Me

She's got her back to the pole, leaning, on a crowded morning train, and people are doing their best to work around her, grabbing high, low. He hair keeps brushing my hand, but it's so stiff with hairspray I'm sure she doesn't feel it, but she does feel the guy standing to her left's knuckles in the middle of her back.

"You don't stop poking me, I'ma hit you," she says, beginning a stream of invective at the gentleman who continues to read his paper, avoiding all eye contact with her.

"Oughta be setting an example," she finally finishes up after a minute of this, before settling back down to her spot, leaning up against the same pole, and the adrenaline begins to dissipate, my heart stops pounding, and the urge to dig my knuckles into the back of her head subsides.

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