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Thoughts On Post-Work Commute

I like looking at people on the train, or observing rather.

There is a woman with glazed over eyes and her right breast spilling out of her slinky black dress crying her sorrows for the well dressed man seated behind her. The well dressed man is pretending to pay attention to her mind because he wants her body. Men... Women. Because sometimes we know, but we give it to them anyway. Someone notices our tears, hears our cry for help. Or pretends to. We all pretend sometimes. Like this woman whose eyebrow pencil is pretending to be her brows. I wonder if she cares that she's drawn them far too thin. I admire her zebra print top. Some people look over life in its entirety at this time of day. It’s only 8, but for some it feels like the final hours of eternity. Eight hours can do that to one’s soul.

I smell rain, from where the train’s door slide open every time we came to a stop. I like to stand up. It’s only 7 minutes, so anything else feels far too short-lived. The man standing beside me with a similar train of thoughts is looking at me. I feel his eyes on me. Far too close for my comfort. I’m thinking about who’s gonna cook the meal I’m coming home to. Oh yeah, that has to be me. Unfortunately.

Cooking is the absolute last thing I feel like doing after working all day. But if I don’t do it, who will? As I think this, more people and conversation enclose the space around me. A guy with locs who had tried to hold a stare with me earlier, has now landed on his 3rd attempt at trying to holla at a woman. He’s succeeding a little, the slim girl with the tattoos on her arms and mermaid hair has taken the bait that the others and myself had swam away from. Perhaps that’s a fisherman’s dilemma. Either way, the laughter erupting between them suggests something positive. Good for you Glen Coco, good for you.

Another guy and I share a secret stifled laugh at the way the drunk old man beside him croons his groove. I’ve forgotten the words, but there wasn’t a hint of shame in the way he emitted his tune despite the train car full of passengers who didn’t want to hear that shit, to put it simply. I think that’s why our laughter was a secret. We didn’t want those who were disgruntled to see how deeply we were amused.

I’m staring in a daze at a Fetty Wap poster. The words “I don’t care about Sherry. I don’t care about her feelings. You’re a mack behind my back right?” acts as a monologue to my daydreams as two old men form a camaraderie over what was evidently women problems. I think to myself, one more stop. In the same thought, I thank God for another day.

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