Hiding Out

As I leave for work, the elderly women, who during the summer spend much of the day on rocking chairs in front of the building, are already out. A dog scares a flock of birds lounging between two cars and they nearly attack me as they take flight.

In the tunnel that leads to the train station, there is another elderly woman walking slowly and just as I pass her on the left, she twists diagonally into the path of my direction. I am able to escape collision, albeit narrowly, and curses me out. The train itself, when I board, is hot and steamy. Someone is clipping their nails. It is disgusting and though I cannot see who it is, I can hear the undeniable, tell-tale clipper click.

I love the new sunglasses I'm wearing, and I leave them on the entire ride. They are a cloaking device, a protective sanctuary. I can look at anyone now. I can gawk and glare, and type away about people on my Blackberry and they will never know the better. So safeguarded and insulated, even Jon will no longer be able to joke about the troubles I'll get from the tidbits I blog. On the bench across from me, an Asian woman with a wide head and a big jaw is wearing her own pair of sunglasses. I stare at her not because she is attractive or interesting in any way, but because I can, and she will never know. She stares back at me, though, and does not ebb even when I shift my eyes elsewhere.

Next to me another woman is wearing sunglasses. She has tight curls that have been bleached blonde and is wearing jeans, a black tank top, and black sandals to match. I look around to see several others wearing their shades inside as well - a bald man with a checkered brown shirt and a shoulder bag, an older woman with flowers on her dress, and others. When I get off the train, the wide headed sunglass woman walks behind me, her glare still unrelenting at the back of my head.