Public transit is the most tremendous liminal space, where people incise others--their bags, bustle, and temperature revising the atmosphere, and everyone is frictive but pretends like they are the only one existing there. Estranging themselves, looking out the window, at the floor, their phone, the advertisements, anywhere but the person whose knee they are leaning against or whose noise and breath are curling around the back of their shoulder, with every other existing for the others as abstracted phenomena.
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The girl sitting next to me on the bus says (into her cellphone), "I got a cream I'm supposed to put on it. It should be gone soon."
Our thighs were touching.
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