George sat
beside Paul on a train headed upstate from the city. Paul was an older man. He
read a science fiction fantasy novel on his iPad, which told a tale of
spaceships and interstellar warfare.
The text was in plain sight of George, who was crammed between Paul and a woman sleeping against the window.
George passed the empty time with a lackadaisical calm. He was happy. A cold beer in hand settled his nerves. But George’s eyes couldn’t help but wander to the fantastical future told in Paul’s book, so clear bright and backlit for him to see.
Every so often, George would take a glance, read a sentence or two and then stop himself. He remembered what his friend Shauna had told him, “It’s the worst thing when someone is reading over your shoulder.”
“Was it really?” George thought.
George scolded from within, “Finish your beer and stop reading over this guys shoulder.” George finished his beer. Then the alcohol took over. George read a paragraph, then two, and before he knew it he was done with the page, but Paul was not.
George had seen Paul turn the pages. No buttons need be pressed; it took just a tap of the finger, as gentle and serene as the first iPhone commercial with the majestic finger and white background. “Technology,” George thought, looking out the window at the luscious, budding foliage forming an immense canopy over the Bronx River.
There was little George could do. Paul was not asleep. The possibility that Paul was taking his time, bringing together a deep, slowly unraveling theme never crossed his mind. George raised his hand, gently shoving Paul’s limp blubbery arm and tapped the screen once to turn the page.
Franz Ferdinand was shot in 1939 and the whole World went to war. All it took was a flick of a finger.
Paul beamed at George who tried to play it off, “Ah…Sorry? I…I was trying to reach for my bag.”
Paul’s eyes, fueled with fantasy, burned holes through George. A lone bead of sweat fell from George’s forehead onto his arm, slid off and landed on the iPad, which was now between the two.
Paul lashed out and shoved George into the sleeping woman. She awoke and shoved George back to Paul who in one fell swoop picked George up and threw him in to the adjacent row of seats, startling the people inside the train-car. Modern, respectful tenets of interpersonal physicality and respect were breached. Everyone stared at George, as if they knew the crime he was guilty of.
“The fact that you had the nerve to turn the page,” Paul said standing above George. “Did you ever wonder that I may have been reading that one?”
“I’m sorry, you just took a long—”
Paul picked George up, like a bitch grabbing a pup by the scruff of his neck, and dragged him forward to the sliding doors of the train-car. The robotic PA voice sounded, “White Plains.”
Paul stared at George and held him against the door, saying nothing. The door was about to open and George thought he might fall between the train and the platform. The bell sounded and the doors clicked open. Paul tightened his grasp, George readied for the worst.
“Why did you do it!?” Paul asked through his teeth. George cracked a lecherous smile and Paul pushed him off the train.
The text was in plain sight of George, who was crammed between Paul and a woman sleeping against the window.
George passed the empty time with a lackadaisical calm. He was happy. A cold beer in hand settled his nerves. But George’s eyes couldn’t help but wander to the fantastical future told in Paul’s book, so clear bright and backlit for him to see.
Every so often, George would take a glance, read a sentence or two and then stop himself. He remembered what his friend Shauna had told him, “It’s the worst thing when someone is reading over your shoulder.”
“Was it really?” George thought.
George scolded from within, “Finish your beer and stop reading over this guys shoulder.” George finished his beer. Then the alcohol took over. George read a paragraph, then two, and before he knew it he was done with the page, but Paul was not.
George had seen Paul turn the pages. No buttons need be pressed; it took just a tap of the finger, as gentle and serene as the first iPhone commercial with the majestic finger and white background. “Technology,” George thought, looking out the window at the luscious, budding foliage forming an immense canopy over the Bronx River.
There was little George could do. Paul was not asleep. The possibility that Paul was taking his time, bringing together a deep, slowly unraveling theme never crossed his mind. George raised his hand, gently shoving Paul’s limp blubbery arm and tapped the screen once to turn the page.
Franz Ferdinand was shot in 1939 and the whole World went to war. All it took was a flick of a finger.
Paul beamed at George who tried to play it off, “Ah…Sorry? I…I was trying to reach for my bag.”
Paul’s eyes, fueled with fantasy, burned holes through George. A lone bead of sweat fell from George’s forehead onto his arm, slid off and landed on the iPad, which was now between the two.
Paul lashed out and shoved George into the sleeping woman. She awoke and shoved George back to Paul who in one fell swoop picked George up and threw him in to the adjacent row of seats, startling the people inside the train-car. Modern, respectful tenets of interpersonal physicality and respect were breached. Everyone stared at George, as if they knew the crime he was guilty of.
“The fact that you had the nerve to turn the page,” Paul said standing above George. “Did you ever wonder that I may have been reading that one?”
“I’m sorry, you just took a long—”
Paul picked George up, like a bitch grabbing a pup by the scruff of his neck, and dragged him forward to the sliding doors of the train-car. The robotic PA voice sounded, “White Plains.”
Paul stared at George and held him against the door, saying nothing. The door was about to open and George thought he might fall between the train and the platform. The bell sounded and the doors clicked open. Paul tightened his grasp, George readied for the worst.
“Why did you do it!?” Paul asked through his teeth. George cracked a lecherous smile and Paul pushed him off the train.
