Stary (1)

Taut little bubbles of life sat on the same blue seats, used Chanel, sported Fubu, breathed the same air. Faces were arranged like a comedy show. There was a sort of uneasy pathos flitting around. A little boy sat pampered in a smart little tuxedo, kicking the floor and narrowly grazing her left shin. His mother, slumped in the seat next to him, dozed. A friend’s marriage, or a cousin’s, Yuri guessed, and swerved a little to avoid the kicks. Ka-chunk.

At the next station seven people stepped on and five left, including the mother (who awakened with a jolt) and her kicking little boy. Yuri squeezed into a seat but then a thin old man with a kindly papier-mache face entered and trembled on his cane so she automatically stood up again. He mumbled a slow thanks and took the seat with a creaking sigh. Yuri clung to the metal pole again. Everyone lurched again.

This time she wasn’t the only one standing. There was a young man who resembled somebody she couldn’t remember a little off to her right. He was holding one of the plastic handles suspended from the ceiling. Yuri didn’t like the handles because they made her hand fall asleep. She cocked her head a little. There was a sort of noised silence bouncing around in the car. Some people made little talk but nothing could be made out. She stared at him because he had his eyes closed and he wouldn’t stare back. His huge backpack slumbered satchel-like on his back, and his black jumper spilled over his jeans in a school-kid kind of look. She decided his eyelashes were very long and his jawline was strong. Heavy headphones dwarfed his ears and the fast music was leaking, clearly audible, sort of muffled, in between ka-chunks. Linkin Park. Yuri liked Linkin Park. She sang along in her head. Ka-chunk.

The subway came to Gun-ja station. People burbled in and out like waves. Yuri didn’t feel like joining the jostle for seats so she leaned on her pole. The young man stayed where he was, eyes closed. He wasn’t tall. He had a tight squared build that swayed a little with each lurch. The noise accumulated. More people bubbled in. Three teenage girls in Anyang high school uniforms were being especially loud. A tiny poodle started to yap yap yapyapyap in a heavily made-up lady’s lap. Yuri couldn’t hear the music anymore. She looked down at the rubberish gray floor, then studied the subway lines on the map above the door until she decided to fix her eyes on a random advertisement about an MP3-playing camera under which a bleary-eyed young woman sat text-messaging someone. Ka-chunk.

More stations passed. People got off and got off more than on until again Yuri and the young man were the only ones standing. Two of the high school girls were asleep and one was reading a comic book. The young man opened his eyes and ran them around the car once, sucking everything in. A momentary link flickered between the only two standing people in a subway car of strangers. He glanced at Yuri once but Yuri glued both eyes to the camera ad in a sort of self-conscious way. Ka-chunk.

Yuri got off at the next station and walked home. Spring was starting to blur over the edges of winter like a thin layer of bright clean spray paint. She liked the springish air, so she skipped up the subway steps, hummed in the elevator, and talked to her goldfish.