The Lady in Pink
8:17 a.m. Friday morning. The weather’s cool–spring-like above ground, a little damp on the subway platform below. I notice a woman sitting across from me wearing a red wool cap and pink fleece jacket. She’s clutching a large red bag in her lap, handles made of black leather. The cap is pulled down so that her eyes are covered and her nose pokes out. Her mouth is open a little, one corner drooping slightly lower than the other.
A man next to her in a navy suit is asleep with his head back and his mouth gaping, trout-like between subtle snores. We hit some bumps and everyone in the car shifts. Some are thrown off-balance. People who were inched too close to their neighbors, perhaps their knees now touching, shift themselves back to the centers of their seats and disengage their limbs. Papers rustle and pages of books are turned. The lights go off and then come back on.
The woman with the pink cap over her eyes barely moves. Her body adjusts itself with very bump and shudder of the car as if her chassis is self-regulating and her shocks are finely tuned.
The man in the suit rolls his head from one side to the other, snorts and, opening his eyes for a second, pulls at his crotch as if his underwear is too tight. He crosses his arms on his chest and closes his eyes again, drops his chin. A few moments later his head rolls back and his mouth is open.
I wonder if the woman in the pink hat is really asleep–how hot it is beneath the wool, if she’s sweating, if she’s not asleep whether she can see through the lining, and why, oh why is she wearing all pink?
This is what I get for not bringing a book with me this morning.
–Joe Lunievicz