5.

Across, three seats down. It’s easy for me to watch her as a friend sits directly across from me. We do not talk. Few bother to contest the metro sounds for a nearby eardrum. A man ascends and blocks my view, but I can still watch the strange mannerism that caught my eye in the vivid reflection in a scratchy window.

She sucks in one cheek.

Then the other.

Again and again between long tangents to the friend beside her.

Perhaps her nose itches.

The two friends are probably tourists as they speak in only English They seem comfortable however, so perhaps they’ve been here a while.

I remember my pretense of bravery, excited newness of this transport. Now I close my eyes as though I’ve been riding it my whole life. It is the thing that carries us home.

The girl’s small twitch is stronger now. Her nose moves from side to side. Hair pulled back tight. Jersey shirt. She would probably be good at soccer but the way her eyes are wide, the way she hugs her knees, this makes me think there is still something in this great city to frighten some small respect. Or at least tickle her nose.

6.

Diagonally, to my left, she sits. Inspecting her apple red claws she sits up a little straighter to look down the length of the train. Painted eyebrows. Lips a surreal pink on polished charcoal. She rises and adjusts the yellow cap, takes off her sunglasses and they rest tentatively against the leopard on her chest and arms and back. The wild dress moves about her from the metro’s mystery breeze. The door opens and she is gone.