The subway doors open with a beep, a blast of hot, stale air rushing in from the station. A woman rushes in, her purple suitcase clipping her heels as she trips over the gap. She sits across from me with a sigh, her body all but collapsing into the seat. A bead of sweat drips down her face, soaking into her hairline with its dark roots leaking through the artificial yellow blonde. As I watch, she digs her hand into her leather purse, digging, digging, pouting her Botox big lips as the train pulls away and her manicured claws still dig, dig, dig.
Her eyes light up as she pulls out a tube from her bag, only to frown again and go back to the purse. Her forehead stays perfectly still, never cracking the plaster mask that is her foundation. She pulls out a second tube, grinning as she checks the color.
The train shrieks and jerks to a stop again. The purse precariously balanced in the woman’s lap as she applies her lipstick from the stained tube goes tumbling to the ground, spilling makeup and tampons and one, thickly stuffed fine leather wallet across the floor of the train.
The doors open right as an eyeliner pencil rolls against it, sending another hot blast. A man in a three-piece suit with a five o’clock shadow steps on as the train empties. It’s just us three left. He takes a glance at me, then at the woman, scrambling to pick up her stuff. He crouches down, helping her repack her bag. The fancy leather wallet goes into the front pocket, cash peeking out of the top from the overstuffed folds.
“Thank you,” the woman whispers, drawing away. The man laughs. It’s not the nicest sound.
The man sits down next to her just barely leaning into her space as I watch carefully.
“I’m always here if you need… anything,” he smirks, patting her shoulder condescendingly.
The woman scoots over another seat as the train takes off. The man in the suit shifts, filling her spot, staying close, giving her a smirk. I think he thinks it’s supposed to be seductive. It just makes him look crazy.
The train plunges into a dark tunnel, and then the man reaches out to the woman. He places his hand ever so gently onto her thigh, right at the edge of her crisply ironed pant suit skirt. She stiffens, and delicately pushes his hand off, giving him a glare. With her nails, she looks like a very fancy kitten, and even I’m not sure if she’s being playful or genuinely wants him to leave her alone.
I do know which way the man takes it, as he slings an arm around her shoulder and leans in closer. I can smell his breath from here. Tuna. The woman wrinkles her nose slightly. She places a hand on his chest and shoves him away, shifting over one more seat. It doesn’t take long for her to regret it, as the man eagerly chases her, trapping her against the corner.
She looks at me with sudden panic, the man’s hand back on her thigh, his other arm around her shoulders. Her situation sinking in.
The train halts once more. I stand. It’s my stop.
“Are you ready to leave, Carly? This is our stop.” I ask, pausing in front of her. The man shoots me an ugly glare.
“Yes!” The woman jumps to her feet, grabbing that purple suitcase and her leather purse with its fancy wallet bouncing in the unzipped pocket and rushing after me as we leave the train and the touchy man behind.
“Thank you,” she sighs. I shrug.
“Wait for the next train to get to your stop.” She nods eagerly. I leave her standing there in the hot stale air, sweat still dripping into her hairline, face still smooth and packed with foundation, nails still perfect and sharp.
As I head up the stairs to the rest of the station, I see her Botox big lips frown again. Her claws go digging, digging, digging, searching, searching, searching. I hope she’s digging for her lipstick again, and not her wallet, a fancy, overstuffed leather wallet that she’s never going to find.
After all, no good deed should go unpaid, and I have another train to catch.