Status: Another short story for NaNoWriMo. Also, wildly unedited.
Bookwarm
Good Mornings
A lot of New Yorkers dread the morning commute. It’s crowded, it’s untimely, and often it’s filled with people who mean you nothing but ill will or, at the least, harbor an almost psychotic level of indifference. But to Castiel, his daily train ride was a godsend.
Every morning, he’d enter the train at 116th Street, shortly after the train arrives in Manhattan. It’s early in the day and just the third stop into the city so, lucky for him, the train is still fairly empty; he always gets a seat. Usually, it’s the seat right near the last door and he’s lucky enough to wedge himself against the metal handrail.
Although many complain about the horrors of the subway, Castiel finds in it a lot of positive qualities. In the summer, where even in the early hours of the morning the heat looms threateningly, the train provides sweet relief from the hellish and sometimes stifling weather; the cool air that rushes out when the train doors open are a welcome reprieve. In the winter, when the snow and consequent icy sludge that follows consumes the city, the flood of warmth that blows as the door welcomes him in, heats up Castiel’s cheeks and leave them tingly and rosy.
Castiel has ridden this train, mostly in silence, every morning countless times. He notices some people; it’s hard to ignore familiar faces when you’re faced with them five times a week. There’s an old man, about seventy, who wears a corduroy jacket when it starts to get cold and huddles behind a fresh newspaper every morning. There’s a child who sit at the end of the train, opposite the conductor’s door, with her mom or nanny. Most days she sports a red rash under her eye and an oversize polka-dotted raincoat, even when it’s too cold or too warm. When the chill of fall gets to be too much, her mom (or nanny) bundles her up in layers underneath that coat, leaving her stuffed and puffy, but probably comfortably warm.
Next to Castiel, joining the train somewhere around Penn Station, sits a young woman, maybe in her late teens or early twenties, who spends her ride scribbling in a run-down notebook. She’s often wearing soft knits; a thick warm scarf, slouchy beret, and fingerless gloves with pull-down mittens. Sometimes Castiel can see her watching him out the corner of her eyes.
It’s a while before a new addition is made to this train car’s usuall crew. It’s a young man, Castiel guesses around his age. Over the top of his book, he sees him enter at 14th Street. He stands against the door opposite Castiel’s seat, backpack straps tight across his shoulders, a book resting between the fingers of his big hands, and his eyebrows knitted. A few stops later, when CorduroyJacket gets off at Houston Street, Eyebrows takes his seat. When he catches him staring, Castiel quickly refocuses his attention on his own novel.
Every morning, he’d enter the train at 116th Street, shortly after the train arrives in Manhattan. It’s early in the day and just the third stop into the city so, lucky for him, the train is still fairly empty; he always gets a seat. Usually, it’s the seat right near the last door and he’s lucky enough to wedge himself against the metal handrail.
Although many complain about the horrors of the subway, Castiel finds in it a lot of positive qualities. In the summer, where even in the early hours of the morning the heat looms threateningly, the train provides sweet relief from the hellish and sometimes stifling weather; the cool air that rushes out when the train doors open are a welcome reprieve. In the winter, when the snow and consequent icy sludge that follows consumes the city, the flood of warmth that blows as the door welcomes him in, heats up Castiel’s cheeks and leave them tingly and rosy.
Castiel has ridden this train, mostly in silence, every morning countless times. He notices some people; it’s hard to ignore familiar faces when you’re faced with them five times a week. There’s an old man, about seventy, who wears a corduroy jacket when it starts to get cold and huddles behind a fresh newspaper every morning. There’s a child who sit at the end of the train, opposite the conductor’s door, with her mom or nanny. Most days she sports a red rash under her eye and an oversize polka-dotted raincoat, even when it’s too cold or too warm. When the chill of fall gets to be too much, her mom (or nanny) bundles her up in layers underneath that coat, leaving her stuffed and puffy, but probably comfortably warm.
Next to Castiel, joining the train somewhere around Penn Station, sits a young woman, maybe in her late teens or early twenties, who spends her ride scribbling in a run-down notebook. She’s often wearing soft knits; a thick warm scarf, slouchy beret, and fingerless gloves with pull-down mittens. Sometimes Castiel can see her watching him out the corner of her eyes.
It’s a while before a new addition is made to this train car’s usuall crew. It’s a young man, Castiel guesses around his age. Over the top of his book, he sees him enter at 14th Street. He stands against the door opposite Castiel’s seat, backpack straps tight across his shoulders, a book resting between the fingers of his big hands, and his eyebrows knitted. A few stops later, when CorduroyJacket gets off at Houston Street, Eyebrows takes his seat. When he catches him staring, Castiel quickly refocuses his attention on his own novel.