Out of Practice

When I was little, I used to play a game when I was riding around on interminable road trips with my parents. I'd stare out the window at the passing cars and find people in them: driving, talking, sleeping, staring out the window back at me. Then I'd imagine what it felt like to be in their bodies - the way that guy rested his arm on the door with the window down, the weight of that thin woman's skin on her bones, what it felt like to have dark skin, or blond hair, or what that pair of jeans felt like, or that jacket, in that car, going that way.

To pass the time today, I played again on the subway, but I must be out of practice, because it was a lot harder than it used to be to slip into somebody else's skin.