Tuesday, May 26, 2015

The Tension is Killing Me

I slip my phone into the front pocket of my bag, aware that this is potentially a bad idea, aware that it would be easy for someone to slip it from the pocket and run with it out of the train and into the crowd, even with my hand on it, even with my headphones plugged in.

I imagine someone on the train, maybe that guy over by the door that I glimpsed out of the corner of my eye, reaching over like that guy did in Morocco, lifting it while I was distracted, but I'd catch him, grab his hand by the wrist, clip him with my elbow in the jaw, maybe twist his arm behind him. My breathing gets shallow, my heart pounds, my wrath is mighty, my righteous justice is like a hammer.

But when I look over, he's waggling his fingers at a baby in a carriage, making her laugh at his gentle smile, and for a moment, I hate myself.

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