Egg

An old man sits sideways on a moving train. He enjoys the steady locomotion, finds it soothing. Less so when the train shudders into each station. Though small, the man spills into the next seat. He is an egg rolling into two seats—an ovoid W.C. Fields astride a wall. His head is bent in reading so that his chin rests on his rounded chest; his lined eyes make dark hoods in an attention that resembles sleep. One hand clutches brittle pages, while the other, blue and papery, rests limply in the lap, rising occasionally to steady the pages’ fluttering when the train doors open to let passengers out, letting a small breeze in. Next to him, shopping bags emit clouds of powdered sugar dust.

The man sways perilously. Too much rattling and he could capsize. But when the rolling train suddenly shrieks, and then quivers to a halt, the little man gives a small yelp and leaps nimbly from his seat. He gathers his belongings, and with a surprising gait, scampers through the automatic doors. On the platform, the man stands bent, spine unfurling to a sharp hook at the neck. He appears forlorn, clasping his confections, adrift in a stream of transit. The train pulls out of the station, and watches the little man dwindle into no more than a fleck.