Train
Sitting across from me was a girl from Emerson. She watched me as I boarded the car, put my bag in the overhead compartment, then unzippered the side pocket and took out my book. “That’s a really good book,” she said. “Thanks,” I said. The conversation went no further.
She pulled out a notebook and started writing about me. I saw her glancing up at me between sentences; that familiar look, evaluating a stranger for which details one should put down on paper. Scanning for his story, filling in the gaps in some places.
I begin to realize there are people out there distressingly similar to me.