He has arms big as my thighs, taps his heel with a rhythm, nodding to his hypertrophic headphones.
Between us a short lady. She looks at her watch and frowns. Her clothes are covered with a blouse. Its embroidery spells "Cleaning Service".
She is first out, then he bulls through.
"I'm getting down at the next one" she explains, but no, please, no, he extends a hand to point at the seat, and shakes his head. His skin is dried mud in Namibia, stained by years and years sun. It wiggles on his bones like draped fabric as he waves to sit her back. He wants to stand
A man, wearing cargo shorts and a t-shirt. His right thumb is to his mouth, eating at it. The right leg goes up and down. In his left hand, resting on the thigh, a chat that he reads with trembling fingers. The last message is on the right - he sent it. It doesn't fit in one screen.
A couple gets on the metro with me, settles in front of a pole. The shorter one rests on the other's breast, but pulls away after a minute - too hot for contact. A fan is taken from the bag. Come back, she gestures, and flaps the fan. The shorter one looks up, smiles, embraces her.