He coughs, hacking up spittle, blood, and phlegm, followed by meager lunch of lettuce sandwich or granola bar. The contents pour, like truck drum’s wet cement, into a sky-blue duffle bag. The woman left of him abandons ship. The duffle filled, he goes to work on tote. Then, like a line of dominoes they fall—the student flees, shopper slithers—they scatter all about the train. Now chokes on stench of odorless indifference. Looks up, extends a limb, his arm defiant, hand in plea. He claps his hands, his bearings got. But the demon takes hold. He hacks again, and now a woman speaks, offering indistinct advice. “When I get home, I will be fine,” he smiles. The woman gone, he hacks again, and claps. He hacks and claps, claps and hacks. Three claps, one hack. And on and on. He mutters something to himself—who else—a mental notch unto his brain. He looks across, then to his right. What, no one wants a show? But there is no one left to see… Except for me… But all I do is look.
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