The train rattles out of the tunnel and up the approach to the Manhattan Bridge, passing between apartment buildings flanking us on either side. I find myself, as I often do, peering out of the train, through the open, uncurtained windows as we pass, into the tidy, well-lit interiors, hoping to see naked people, or, perhaps, a couple having sex.
I cringe in momentary shame as I catch myself in my perversity, but then I stop. If I did happen to catch someone in a moment of indiscretion, they would either be doing it on purpose to feed their own perversity, knowing that someone might see, or doing it with total indifference, uncaring who saw.
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