Full Moon

There's a sudden influx of people pushing past me, coming not from the subway door, but from further down the car, and I pivot and move back the way they came, following some primitive directive for balance, before I see what caused the migration.

I don't even see it until I catch the wide eyes of the woman sitting down in front of me. She's not looking at me, but rather past, around me to the bench opposite where a man has pulled the cowl-neck of his once-nice, now filthy and tattered sweater over his head and is feeding tissues into it like some kind of mentally-ill, headless Mummenschanz.

Having finished that, he sits there, still headless, with his hands in his lap, until I get off at my stop, whereupon he begins to twitch and spasm, either masturbating or seizing, and I exit to see him no more.