It's the fucking winter, or maybe the crap coke. Probably the crap coke, but my nose runs constantly now. It's a pain in the ass, especially on the train. What's a man to do? Inhale, left fuck-you finger to the side of the nose, push, block, pause, blast. The train bounces around a curve, and I lose track of the yellowy warhead a few inches from my face. The mottled subway floor throws up a complex and waxy camouflage, so like that clever bastard from Merchant of Venice, I let loose another arrow, this time paying closer attention to its resting place.
I'm in love again. My faith in love is still devout. The dilemma: my baby cries valium instead of tears. I didn't ask for it to be like this. What's a man(ic) to do?
I lose track anyway, though, and start to search the floor again. Nothing. Nothing. Then I spot the missiles: the first is about two inches from the bottom of the cuff of an older man's grey suit-looking pant leg. The second straddles the man's shiny black shoe and the floor. The car is loosely crowded, and he stands about two feet away, his back to me, unaware of the thickening plot. No one sees any of this. No one ever does. Then, startled, I notice a younger working-class female watching me, her eyes semi-dull with train-stupor and disapproval. She doesn't say anything, though (no one ever does,) and after committing the briefest flash of eye contact, she goes back to reading the backlit ads. It makes me sad when women see me and my snot-rockets. It makes me feel small and vulgar and stupid.