You shuffle your feet back and forth, adjusting for the trains rocking motion like a surfer. A space opens up near the pole. You sidle into it and grab the pole, snuggling your hand between a dark brown, muscular hand with a gold band encircling the fourth finger, and a slender, red nailed, pale hand with a floral tattoo peeking out beneath shirt cuffs. The slick silver pole feels cool and metallic in your palm. The person across from you yawns and the stench of stale coffee-breath splashes your face. “God, I hate this!” you mutter. The eye of your neighbor flinches towards you then resumes skimming a four-folded copy of the New York Times. Remembering your sales report in your bag, you twist slightly to dig it out. You stop because your elbow jabs into the ribs of the woman beside you. She frowns briefly then resumes reading. Frustrated by not being able to get out the report, you scan the various posters hanging near the ceiling instead. In one, a policeman’s stern face stares. My young heart pounded with the primal thrill of it. My possibilities were endless.At the bow of the massive vessel, with the sharp sea breeze in my face, I felt totally alone; a carved figurehead on an abandoned ship, chin raised defiantly, long hair flapping like a black pennant. My silk dress clung to my teenage curves and trailed behind me like a milky slipstream. The warm wind isolated me from the music, the chatter, the clinking and clattering. It swept up the wash of sound and bailed it over the stern into the ship’s swirling wake.An albatross mewled and hovered like a ghost above me, while to the north a bank of fog, hundreds of feet high and miles across, stole silently upon us. I was reminded of a line from Coleridge’s most famous poem:'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay that bring the fog and mist.’Praying for clement weather, I raised an imaginary bow and pierced the bird's heart with a speeding arrow. Its beady eyes simply stared at me then it wheeled away into.
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