Anita Dime
The 8:57
Commuting, head propped against the window, swaying with the
clack-clack. The scent of peppermint drops, Lysol, and cheap teen
perfume scratch against the newsprint and stale cigarettes, seeping
into every blue fiber still clinging for its life on that train car.
Eyes have a funny way of looking without looking or rudely staring
when they think no one else is looking. The mysterious cocooned
bubbles, circling round each person, a soap bubble of memories, bit
images of life experiences transmitting into personalities, swirling
between the digital rhythms, or reciting silently each word of that
romance novel.