A bald man in his early thirties was pressing a digital counter as fast as a mass killer trigger of his gun. Where I expected his shiny skull, were implanted hairs. About five per square inch.
He wore a blazer, some khakis and a blue shirt.
Next to him sat a woman, she tried to look sexy in her gym pants, sport top and makeup. She would look better wearing nothing at all.
I caught a warped image of myself in a curved window of the train: Shorts too large in the waist (donation of my fatter friend), that t-shirt I didn't like, Doc Martens and a hat. A face without makeup.
I'd also look better naked, with her on top of me. The fake-hair dude could film us, or cheer, or press his counter.
God, I think I drunk too much coffee this morning, it's not even seven. I guess today will be alright. We all have been there.
Or have you?