Today, the man running down the street with his arms wrapped around his un-bagged dirty dry-cleaning probably didn’t know about the woman riding the Brown Line for the first time in seven years. She probably didn’t know about him either.
She yelled at the son who should have thought more about soccer practice, car keys, personal details and consequences. She told him he was grounded, that enough was enough. Sorry doesn’t cut it; she’s sticking to it this time.
She looked through the eyes she’d never used on a train at the group of twenty-something boys on their way home from work. They yelled about baseball games, spilling beer and nachos on somebody’s windbreaker. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The timing of her grounding was off, she knew, for some of the lives she thought he’d have. He was going to be a fine lost cause, she thought.
The man wasn’t running because he was rushing. He was wearing black athletic clothes and trying to streamline his life. He thought for a moment that a pen had fallen from one of his pockets, but nothing had dropped. He kept running.