My fingers itched. I was trying to read but the subway car kept bouncing along the tracks, and the words weren’t hooking in like they should have, so I put the book away. It was still four stops from work. Five minutes on a good day. But those were rare.
The doors stayed open for an eternity at the next station. I scratched my fingers.
The night before I told someone I could only find my enthusiasm after four beer. Their eyes dropped from mine and they mumbled something about how sorry they were. I didn’t see why.