A Express

Imagine that you are on the subway on your way home from a long day at work. Lucky you, you have a seat. However, you've forgotten your book, so instead you are looking around at the weary people in front of you. You can do that, because all of the people's faces are far above yours; they won't notice that you are watching. You are below their eye level. And, you tell yourself, people-watching is harmless anyway.

There is a woman standing in front of you. She's pretty, she's young, she's wearing a wedding ring. She has a black leather purse over one shoulder, a canvas shoulder bag over the other, a coat draped over her left arm which holds a book just below her chin. She is engrossed in the book. Her right arm is stretched up, over her head, and she is holding onto the rail. She is surrounded by people. The car bumps and you notice that her right knee just barely touches your left knee. She must have noticed too, because she takes a small step away from you, a very small step because really, there is nowhere for her to go. She is pressed into the crowd. You are grateful that you've got a seat, you've got breathing room, you are below everyone's eye level. The car jumps again and you notice that the man behind the woman, probably somewhere in his forties, 6 ft 2 or 3, around 240 lbs, is moving his hand, barely, but he is moving his hand and he places it on the woman's bottom. No, no, he isn't actually touching her, he's half a centimeter away from touching her, and then, with just his thumb, he touches her. He slides his thumb along the slope of her bottom and she flinches, slightly, but before she can look up from her book to see what's happened, he's turned his back on her. The car comes to a stop, the doors open, a flood of people pour out, a flood of people pour on, the man has backed away from the woman, there are several people between them now. The woman has buried her nose in her book. You aren't even sure if you saw what you saw. Maybe you imagined it. You must have imagined it. Of course you imagined it. That wouldn't have happened, how silly! You look over at the man. Has he moved? He's closer than before. Yes, yes, he's making his way through the crowd, he is standing behind the woman again. Maybe they know each other. That must be it. He's an old boyfriend or something, and when she finally notices him it will be a happy reunion. Of course. New York is full of random reunions like that. The man is doing something with his hand, something with his hand but he is behind the woman, so you can't see what it is. He closes his eyes. God, it looks like he's masturbating! Isn't that funny? Or, no, he's probably fallen asleep. My, you have a dirty mind! Yes, it must be that he's just exhausted and barely falling asleep, his eyes are closed and his head is nodding, his head lolls forward and the car jerks and you see the man's penis.

He has his penis out and he is fondling it and now he is stroking the woman's bottom with the tip of his penis. You look up at the woman. Her brow is furrowed. Does she feel him? Does she know what's happening? Or is she so engrossed in her book that she doesn't notice? Of course she notices. How could she not notice? Why doesn't she say something? Should you say something? Should you?

YES. YOU SHOULD. YOU SHOULD FUCKING SAY SOMETHING.

The woman flinches and takes a long step away from the man, pushing into the person beside her, who sticks out an elbow and shoves her back into the man. The car stops. He's put his penis away. He gets off the car with the flood of people who pour out. The woman's face is flushed. Her eyes are watery. She has not looked up from her book, not once. You lean over and tap her hand.

"Excuse me, Miss? You need to go home and wash."

"What?"

"You need to go home and wash. That man was doing something very bad. Very inappropriate."

"What? What? What was he doing?"

You shake your head. "Just go home and wash." And then you look away.

You don't look at the woman again, not once. She rushes off at the next stop, but you don't look up to see if there are tears on her cheeks or stains on her dress. You look away. You always look away.