Oblivion

The C train has come to a stop at Washington Ave and a smattering of people get on. It’s late so the car isn’t too crowded. Four white women in their late twenties sit beside me, sweeping away spilled oatmeal with the soles of their boots. They talk about how expensive they are. They talk about their classes in NYU, how many clients they’ve been given, and what assignments they skip. Tuition is expensive, but the boots are a priority. They are psych grad students, I decide. I clamp my hand against my ear to try to block out their loud, nasal-pitched voices. I can’t focus on the article I’m reading. I can’t focus on anything but how much I hate these women. I shift uncomfortably in my seat. The faces in the train are darker and weary. Those who are awake look passively annoyed. Or maybe I am projecting. I try to edge away; I try to disassociate myself with the group. They are dark-haired females rooted in complaints and books and a souless discussion of wealthy social structure. I get off at 14th Street. I decide sit down on the bench before catching the L train. Somewhere, that C train is on the tracks, pushing up through Manhattan. I wonder which is more oblivious: the city, the women, or the subway. Somewhere, someone spills more oatmeal on the floor.

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One response to “Oblivion

  1. I think you should be taking the G to the L (transfer at Metropolitan). The C is clearly no fun at night.

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