He gets up from his seat unexpectedly, between stations as the train slowly trundles downtown, and sort of flails up the car to the pole where I'm standing. I do that half-unconscious pivot counter-cross that New Yorkers do when there's room to move in a subway, but he still manages to end up standing too close to me as he grabs the pole.
His energy is all spiky and too big for the contained space, but I try to focus on his hand (beautiful dark brown skin shading to pale on his palm) as a part of my brain wonders if his other hand might be feeling in his pocket for a razor.
The train rolls to a halt still in the darkness of the tunnel, and he sighs in exasperation, leans impatiently against the door, then thrashes down the car to yet another seat next to a woman, who shifts uncomfortably to give him room.
Post a Comment