Tonight was my first experience with riding Trax after 9 o'clock PM.
In front of me sat a man in sunglasses, fedora, and well shaven face who seemed to be holding an engaging one-sided conversation with himself. He would agree, say 'what!' and generally keep a rather fluid, lucid, and apparently rational dialogue going, all while maintaining an unaffected expression. In contrast, another of my nighttime company was a lady in the bench across the aisle; she had a distinctively inattentive demeanor and an unfinished cigarette suspended between her fingers, the smell of which poisoned the whole car.
Then there was me; my backpack was propped on my lap, crammed with the tools of my trade as well as five books from the public library: two collections of contemporary short fiction and three volumes of poetry by Billy Collins. My feet were timidly splayed on the floor, expressively tired of wearing the four-inch towers affixed to the heel of my shoes. My mind, actively ignoring the complaints of my feet, ran reminders of everything I need to do tomorrow: get up, eat breakfast, have a phone interview with a company I'd never heard of before, go to work, go to meetings, come home...
One thought, however, repeatedly resurfaced: tomorrow? I'm wearing my Converse.
