I zip past the lights, which become long strings of luminosity, and then someone hits the brakes, sending me flying through the proverbial windshield. The strange clicking voices that I heard split and their atoms become tiny whines. I lift my hands to my head, concerned that the frequency will damage my hearing, but my hands aren't there, come to think of it…there's not a sign of my body anywhere. I feel like I should be upset, or concerned at least, but I feel nothing but peaceful and reflective. There's a purpose here…I just have to divine it…
Suddenly I'm being rattled around inside a thin metal pipe, which grows smaller and smaller as I slow down. I shoot through a dingy metal grate, and hurtle towards the ground of what appears to be a subway. I'm no longer tiny, but, still invisible and made out of cosmic Styrofoam (apparently), I drift next to a man clad in a gray woolen business suit with an attaché lying next to his feet. He sits stiffly, watching the other passengers nervously, like they might leap at him all at once, stabbing him with their umbrellas, beating him about the ears with 99¢ loaves of bread. It's Tuesday, you know, these things go on sale. I watch him, pondering his identity. Relaxed. Patient. It will come. Oh yes. That's him. The man in my ear.
When another passenger meets his sweeping gaze, (a neat, careful man with manicured nails and meticulous combed hair), he quickly looks away and stares down at the dingy floor, vague disgust registering in his eyes. The subway shudders to a halt, the passengers swaying like sea fronds as they bend over to pick up their things; a tired newspaper or magazine, a shopping bag, a brief case. A heavy woman remains seated, letting her thick shoulders shift only slightly, as if defying the subways' movement. Her shoes are tan leather, with skinny laces and a cut-hole pattern. Her dark curly hair clings to the sides of her face, thin black hairs, graceful almost, cover her upper lip. She glances at the businessman disapprovingly, her eyes taking their turn in sweeping over his gray back, lingering on his once-polished-now-scuffed shoes. She seems to want to eat him, put him to her bones. Better use than the job he subscribes himself to. Waste of space.
Watches him leave his wallet on the seat.
The doors open with a cool shhhhh, and the concrete ground outside stands firm, the subway wobbling clumsily as passengers get on and off. A young man wearing headphones bumps into the gray businessman. Both glance up, glance away, and continue. The businessman's hand instinctively goes to his pocket, groping for the vanished wallet. Realization sinks in. The subways doors shhhhhh close, and the young man takes the seat where the businessman was. He starts after the subway
and the cat knocks over the table lamp. I shoot up from the blanket, startled, to meet Amadeus staring at me in the usual guilty-cat fashion, you know, the whole "who, me?" bit. I groan, trying to cover my head with a pillow. Thinking better of it, I huck it at the cat, who lets out an indignant squeak and scampers under the sofa. There he crouches, glaring balefully.
The faithful clock reads 12:07.
The doorbell rings.
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