I’ve seen her type before. She came out of nowhere. I woke up from my distracted bubble to enter hers with her words:
“Bitch. Freak Bitch. You bitch.”
I think some of us look in the direction of her rage but can’t quite make out whom she is referring to. The anger; the kind that, like a deep gash, bleeds through jeans and keeps staining with no end.
“You racist bitch. Fucked up bitch.”
She wears a sun hat that gives off the impression of happiness. Light and then dark on dark; and a face that could scour for days. She continues:
“You don’t see I’m black, bitch? Huh, bitch? I kill your type, bitch,” out to the ether, to some woman, I’m assuming, that I can’t seem to decipher in the carriage.
She moves from one poll to the next always in the same corner, like a tiger shifting in its cage, ready to pounce. It frightens the passengers around her because we don’t know what she’s capable of. Her words make her dangerous and fearful of our lives. How self centered. What about helping her? Thought of that?
“Stupid bitch. Fucked up bitch.”
I look at her for a hot moment and wonder if her parents spoke to her this way? That she’s the bitch in the story that is constantly reminded of it. The sourness in her heart has eaten away at her skin, which looks like a turtle’s shell. I don’t think a smile has warmed up her lips, jaw and tongue in weeks.
In the next hot moment, she darts toward the other end of the train as if resolved that the bitch is now going to get it. Her energy like a bullet shooting through the crowd. Everyone gives way to this Tasmanian Devil. I’m fearing the worse. Always fear. Always the worse kind. Instead, she changes carriages through the connecting door and is out of our lives for good.
There’s an ensemble sigh.