An open box marked “Fragile”. And the woman carrying it looked fragile enough too. Of course.
It was tricky. Not old enough to be given a seat based on a grey head of hair, not young enough to be called “Miss”. When you’re in the middle (unless you’re beautiful), nobody gives their seat.
Sorry lady, you’re standing for the long haul.
Two stops later, the seat in front of me opens.
I ask, “Would you like to sit down?”
“Thanks,” she says, and drops her box on the floor. The floor! I wait for the crashbangboom.
It’s filled with scarves.
Writing in Transit is a recurring series of 100-word stories based on my experiences on the subway. Posted on Fridays, they’re exactly 100 words. I double checked.