on the subway
this is a work of fiction, a short story, a stream of consciousness all rolled into one.
This is a work of fiction! I’ve been writing this short story for a few weeks now and I had a lot of fun with it. I am trying to be more descriptive in my writing <3 My protagonist is having a bad day on the subway, something I’m sure we can all relate to in one way or another :)
My nose is running and I’m on the subway and I don’t have a tissue. It’s disgusting to use my shirtsleeve to wipe my left nostril but I don’t think I have a choice. Everyone has done it. I’m only a human. I slowly bend behind my elbow in hopes of hiding the worst of it, my anonymity on the L train protecting me only slightly. I try to sacrifice the tiniest square inch of fabric to catch the nasal drip. It’s delicate, it’s handled, I’m safe from a minor catastrophe. I exhale, politely lower my arm back into its rightful spot in our rush hour subway car conglomerate when I make eye contact with another girl around my age. Her hair is done, it’s pulled back neatly, her nails are long and shellacked with gel polish in a delicious burgundy color. Jewelry adorns her nimble wrist and fingers. This makes me realize I forgot my rings this morning.
She’s still looking in my direction. She might pity me, sure, but I have a feeling it’s even worse than that. She probably does not even notice me standing there, she is just looking through me, completely oblivious to how ridiculous I look with my arm outstretched like a circus performer, trying to grasp the pole with the smallest part of my palm to avoid germs. Not her. People made space for her, the crowd parted when she stepped on at Bedford Ave. There’s no game of twister for Hot Girl. No one would ever make her do that. That’s what I decided to call her, by the way. Hot Girl.
I wonder what Hot Girl is doing on this L train. I assume if she lives in Brooklyn, it’s because she chose to, not because she has to. Money isn’t an issue for Hot Girl. It never seems to be for girls like that.
My nose starts to drip again. This time, cognizant she might see me wipe it, I try to control it. I can’t sacrifice another shirtsleeve for the same exact purpose. It won’t do. I have to be in the office in twenty minutes for a job I don’t even like, I can’t have nasal drip on my both my sleeves. That’s disgusting. One sleeve, I can hide. Two is just awful. Two is proof I can’t handle myself. I can already hear the accounting staff whisper at each other as I walk in, forced to pass their desk clump.
“Looks like another rough morning.”
There’s four accountants, their names don’t matter. They know I’m going through it because they heard me crying in the bathroom last week. One of them knocked on the single stall, whispering something inaudible that I’m sure was meant to be words of comfort. I ignored it obviously and came out with red eyes, a bad attitude and two soiled shirtsleeves.
It’s not that I WANTED to cry at work. It’s just that I had to. When I emerged, they all watched me slink back to my desk. Someone had delicately placed a fresh box of tissues on it. It made me feel like a loser, someone who can’t control themselves at the office. I’m a sad person, I know. I’m really trying to reframe, but how else am I supposed to see myself?
Thinking about this makes me cringe. I try to shift my weight in response, which is nearly impossible as I’m wedged in between two Brooklyn Bros, one of whom refuses to take their backpack off. My airpods are playing the meditation podcast I’m supposed to be listening to but I can’t even hear it. My lunch container with last night’s leftovers is sloshing back and forth. I’m overstimulated so I try to look up. Brooklyn Bro #1, the one with the backpack is tall, which is nice, but he has a receding hairline and a seed in between his front teeth. I should tell him, that would be a nice thing to do, but then again, he’s a random guy, and there’s always a chance he could murder me. So I ignore it. I try to focus on the meditation podcast. Breathing, breathing. Nothing is bothering you. You’re fine. You’re okay.
I look back over. I can’t help it. Hot Girl is not wearing headphones, she’s simply just existing. It’s amazing, actually, how comfortable she seems standing with her own thoughts. Her bag is neat, delicately placed on her shoulder, the perfect work tote. It’s not overstuffed with shit, it looks like she zipped it up without a problem. I can tell there’s no Tupperware shoved in there. I just know. It bothers me that Hot Girl would never need to take leftovers for lunch. Even if her dinner was prepared by like a private chef or something and it’s guaranteed good™️, Hot Girls don’t carry Tupperware. She’ll definitely make a stop for matcha on her way in to her shiny Midtown office and she won’t spill any of it on her outfit. Her bag doesn’t weigh nine hundred pounds, she can handle a paper cup. It’s not fair that some of us have to carry bags full of shit and she can just waltz out the door, phone keys wallet, not a care in the world.
This is when I really start to double down on this narrative. I can’t help it. Someone will take her out for drinks tonight, if it’s not her boyfriend, it’s a guy that’s texting her back consistently and being upfront about how he feels. As I’m growing more bothered thinking about how nice Hot Girl’s dating life must be, the meditation podcast somehow gets louder in my ears. You’re not thinking about it, you’re not thinking about it. Breathing, breathing, breath. Nothing is bothering you. I’m fine. I’m fine.
This of course, makes me want to check my phone. I know I’m not hearing from him but part of me hopes to anyway. I have to give this up. I’m fully aware. I can’t be crying at work about something I can’t control. Obviously there’s nothing important on my stupid phone, the exception being a few group texts from my family group chat bragging about their Wordle scores. I don’t even play it anymore, so this means nothing to me. I turn my attention back to Hot Girl as a distraction.
Women who commute in kitten heels always amaze me. You have to be so aware of grates and shit and steps to commute in kitten heels. Of course, Hot Girl is wearing a suede kitten heel with a pointed toe. This makes me start to crack up. Brooklyn Bro #1 ignores me, but Brooklyn Bro #2 looks a little stressed out by my insane laughter. He’s shorter than the other guy with better hair, but still. He’d probably want to murder me too.
We’re at Union Square, I have to get off. Of course, I watch longingly as the crowd parts for Hot Girl’s exit onto the steamy platform. I step out off the train and I unintentionally follow her up the QNRW platform. She faces the local side, same train I have to take. Doesn’t even take her phone out. The R barrels into the station and it occurs to me we’re about to go the same way, yet again. This makes me want to throw up, to quit my job, to rip my clothes off and start screaming. The accountants will have a field day if me and Hot Girl have the same commute. If I start seeing her every day on this damn train, I’m going to lose my mind.
This time she sits. I follow her lead and I sit directly across from her. She has to notice me now, there’s no way she can’t. I’m under some sort of trance. She’s just sitting there, staring into the void. Is she looking at me? I quickly glance down and check my shirt for stains. There’s nothing. My sleeve has even dried from the earlier events. It can’t be that. I want to look at my phone but another part of me wants to be just like her, comfortable with just, being.
The podcast is still on. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay.
I’m only going three stops. This will be over soon. I realize I’m probably staring too intensely, so now I allow myself to look at my phone one more time.
Still nothing. I told him not to call me, that’s probably why he hasn’t. That’s why. I said, “never talk to me again.” So that’s definitely why. I sit and think about what he’s doing right now, he’s probably on his way to the office as well. Nothing is special about him. We’re all just going to work.
The train lurches into 28th street. I have one more stop. To my shock, Hot Girl stands and goes to get off. I guess we’re not going to the same place. There’s fewer people on this train so no one needs to move for her. She’s right in my direct orbit, I could reach out and touch her if I wanted to. The train stops. The doors don’t open for a split second. She is about to leave. I might never see her again. I probably won’t ever see her again. This thought unsettles me. Should I tell her she’s a Hot Girl? But that’s insane, why would I EVER do that?
Before she steps off she whispers in my direction. “You have a seed in your front teeth - girl to girl, I just thought you should know. I love your outfit, by the way!”
And then, she steps off. The doors close. The podcast comes back.
“You’re fine. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.”
Find your inner HOT GIRL and tell people if they have something in their teeth! Maybe they’re on their way to a big work meeting and they need to know! Love you and thanks for reading.