erosion

When I finally hopped the 9:44 train yesterday, I sat across from young man who was sketching the shapes of a woman in his notebook. I watched his hand move as he balanced the notebook on his knee to combat the uneven ride North, each stroke adding dimension and emotional depth. He added light, feathery detail to her whirling ponytail and shaded her shapely legs, each planted on either side of a concrete ravine. Nearly suffocated by apocalyptic debris of the razed cityscape, he drew her strong and resolute.

To my left, a phone sang an old Destiny’s Child tune. A woman dug through her purse and finally barked, “What?” Her hair was pulled tight and she smoothed the fly-aways as she listened to the caller. “Why should I?” she asked. “When was the last time you did something like that for me?” She paused and dropped her head. “I jump for you. You need something and I jump. You never jump for me. You don’t give a damn.” She listened and nodded along with the inaudible voice on the other end.

The artist looked up from his picture, adjusted his all-black Boston ball cap, and began erasing. The woman closed her phone and repositioned her sunglasses, her lips pursed and nose red.