Clothed

There was a tragic woman on the train today. She was filthy and her clothes were tattered. Her presence alone scared away the women in the vicinity. Crazy they would say. One screwed up bitch. Talking to herself and scratching herself all over with the hand that did not have a ski glove on. How did she end up looking like that? Half dead, but still alive enough to roam the metro stations.

At that moment I wanted to be in a warm place, some place of comfort. But instead I was sitting in the harsh fluorescent light with swarms of unwelcomed smells, opinions and germs. I counted down the stations until I could escape from the exposure.

I was lost in my thoughts until the tragic woman started to scream out words from a foreign tongue that sounded from an eastern European country. As if making a point at the end of her outburst she bit down hard on her McDonald's hamburger. Unfazed by her presence was the Mayan-looking man sitting next to her. He would keep his sad lonely expression throughout the entire trip.