Septa train observations (chock full of run on sentences and too many commas)

The window pane changes with the heat of my breath. What was once a vessel for sight, revealing to me what was out there, what could be, now loses it’s cool as I try to capture my composure. It becomes shy, trying to hide its transparent self, yet only making itself more obvious to me.

Speaking of shy… the one two seats in front of me, the one pulling her hat down further and further each time someone glances her way, silently pleading with each new passenger to choose another open seat. I wonder what she’s listening to in those headphones. Maybe nothing, too insecure to keep them off but too curious and nosy to tear herself away from the intricate conversations of others.

I got the short stick today, someone sat next to me. Average height, middle-aged, glasses and a baseball hat. He fits perfectly into one of the few stereotypical Septa passengers. Maybe he has a daughter about my age, and maybe she has a young kid of her own. Maybe he spoils his grandchild now since he never had the chance to spoil his own child. Or maybe not. I think he’s asleep, but he could be reading this over my shoulder. Hi, sir.

The conversation behind me is uncomfortable to listen to. Participant one: an eighteen year old male dancer who doesn’t believe in the classification of sexual orientation but is currently dating an awesome woman. He wants to learn French and Spanish. His father is Puerto Rican but he looks “like, totally European.” Participant two: French woman who thinks Europe is great all around, except for Russia because it’s “mean and scary.” I’ve never heard an eighteen year old who truly knew it all like this guy does.

I’m feeling a little weird because I just realized that I’m not wearing a bra. Also, the guy who takes tickets just made me jump really obnoxiously because he yelled “BRYN MAWR” right behind me. And then called me out for jumping. I’m sick of you, Septa.

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