Commuters

There is, for every city commuter aboard an exhausted mean of public transport coated in urine and coffee, a person who you've seen every day for as long as you can remember, eavesdropped on with dim ears as they chattered away to their actual buddies while you wish you had something better to waste time at. You could spout out steam about their favorite colors, favorite shirts, romantic lives, best friends, opinions on the mayor... anything, really, is encapsulated or imposed open our fragrant glimpses of their wafting souls. My such fellow is a young boy at my school: purple, his plaid button-down, not applicable, none yet, and independent. Sometimes, I want to fling myself across the car and latch onto his shoulders, guide him through the station and out onto the streets, through exams and intricate essays, confusing maps and catastrophic pop quizzes; I want to make sure he doesn't end up looking at those oblique tracks as an escape for the stress.

I spotted him this afternoon, inadvertently dozing on the graffiti-smothered window a few seconds before our stop. Staring at his forehead, I mouthed fiercely, "Wake up kid, it's gonna be okay. I know those days when you're like a working ant and your brain shrinks and shrinks as your sleeping time shrivels up in the early sun, but it gets better. Stay awake. Stay awake." Suddenly, he popped forward and shook his head out, as if trying to jostle my words out of his head in defiance. But he woke up, and went home.