It's grey and hot and heavy and unmoving. Nothing moves except the train. I'm still and so is my life. It floats and ebbs. His music is driving me mad. I want to shake him and tell him to turn it off. We move again, snake into Crystal City. Off, on, off. The passengers doze and mutter. Most are in a stupor. They shift. Children whine. Men in suits exchange small talk and look at each other with distrust. A pimply adolescent shouts to his friend.
I feel nauseous from moving backward. Tourists shuffle in. Visors drip with rain, cameras hang listlessly around their fat, sunburned necks. They whisper incoherently. We ride the blue train, or so we are told. All the people in here have bad haircuts and ugly shoes. I ache for them. A billboard urges me to make an informed decision. At Cleveland Park I get off and see a white black man. He must be very confused.
Wednesday. 8:30. My train's late. People crowd near the concrete edge where
we are told not to stand. A young man tells war stories about working late
skipping meals, and never seeing his wife. How brave you are, I think.
A Chinese man gets on and squints at me. He frowns and bends his head in reverence
to today's headlines.
An electric pink satin shirt clings to the breasts of a woman. Her decaled
talons click against the metal pole like an insect. The scent of ripe
bananas pours from her bag and wets the static air.
