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.
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