Commute

An actor reherses a play. The script, typed, not word processed, sits on his lap. His hands move in shortened large gestures and his face exaggerates expressions - it will be on the stage and needs to be seen from the back. His thick black eyebrows knit and his penetrating black eyes focus.

There's a woman in an ugly blue and silver hat, swirled in netting, probably homemade. Perches on top of her head and seems a bit small. A young man sits next to me and starts to read the paper. A teenage girl, having spied him, jumps from her chosen seat and dives into the seat opposite me to make sidelong eyes at him. I glance at the young man - he is wearing a trilby hat and has the alternative image of Johnny Depp. When he doesn't notice the girl, she goes back to stroking the hairs on her arm and picking skin off her lips. These must be common habits - her lips are ringed red and her arms have peeled off scabs. Bad-hat woman starts filing her nails with an emery board. Scratchyscratchscratch.

Stuck in the tunnel between stops. In the quiet people huff and shift weight onto opposite feet, loosen jackets. Someone's personal stereo spills out jazz.