A girl gets on. She has seven deep slashes on each wrist, newly transforming into thick purple scars from peeling scabs. She's wearing skinny jeans, a trendy shirt. She spends the entire ride on her cell phone, giggling and talking loudly.
Someone gets off, and I, who have been standing, take his seat. A woman glares at me for the rest of the ride.
I am wearing headphones, sunglasses, reading a book. The Eastern European woman next to me tries to talk to me. I ignore her. She speaks. I say nothing. Finally, she taps me on the shoulder. I take a bud out of my ear, push my sunglasses up onto my head, look at her inquiringly:
"It's a lovely day, don't you think?"
A man will not stop itching his leg. He grates at it furiously through his pants. I become convinced that he has fleas.