The odds of interruption must increase exponentially over the time exposed,but even now no conductor appears to tap him on the shoulder, or even look down at him disdainfully or with barely concealed interest. The train merely grinds to a halt in Hicksville and the doors open and I get off and maybe they get off also, but I don't notice; a group of loud drunks drops a bottle of malt liquor wrapped in a paper bag on the concrete stairs leading to the parking lot and the sound of breaking glass is very sharp in the empty morning air.
The fluorescent tubes overhead flicker, go out and a few moments later pop back on,revealing that he is on top now,somehow,the flashes of color above the seat-backs turned blond,like toast popping up ready to be snatched by a waiting hand...and then?