A sudden jolt as the train lurches forward along the metal tracks, breaking a thick silence. Approaching its next stop the train slows, and the riders fidget with impatience.
Fluorescent lights fall hard on the drained faces of workers and students, illuminating their stress. The train stops. Several passengers suck their teeth and sigh. Some search for eye contact, looking for a moment of solidarity against New York’s cursed transit system.
Without the sound of the train scraping along the tracks and the whoosh of air blasting through the vents, the subtle movements of others become more noticeable. The standing passengers shuffle their legs in an effort to distribute weight between their tired feet.
Those with company pause mid-sentence to lower their voice. But the surrounding silence fails to conceal their conversation about work drama.
(Sorry you got fired, John)
Noses are shoved into scarves as people cough from the dry, stagnant air; one man seems to be doing so on purpose, to make others uncomfortable.
The speakers crack in preparation for an announcement and the passengers remove their earphones hoping for an update. Instead they are reminded that if they see something, they should say something. A muffled, collective groan.
F-bombs clutter the dull air; fingers jab at phones in a vain attempt at distraction. There is no service.
Once again, the train jolts into motion. It’s picking up speed this time and AC blasts through the air vents. At last, a moment of relief.
And then train grinds, again, to a halt. Just… outside… the stop.
