They're laughing when I step on the train: a good looking couple, the guy in skinny jeans and a soft, loose green sweatshirt, the girl in an off the shoulder t-shirt and shimmery matte gold tights. I want to like them, I do, but the girl is committing one of the cardinal sins of subway etiquette by leaning up against the subway pole like she owns the place, and the pole splits her butt cheeks so that one cheek rests on either side of the pole, a study in soft gold and chrome.
What I want to do is grab the pole, just above her ass, and stick a knuckle right into the small of her back, so that when the train jostles us, she's thrown back onto it and leaves with a bruise and a reminder to be a little less selfish next time.
But what I do is grab the pole as high as I can without straining, so that my knuckles brush the back of her head, and every time the train comes to a stop, her braids bounce gently off the back of my hand, all the way down into Brooklyn.
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One year ago: The Vast Wasteland
Two years ago: Me Too
Three years ago: Better With Age
Four years ago: Cerberus Minus One
Nine years ago: 5-11-08 BIKESi
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