rigadoon

Caricatures.

The yellow receiver hangs upside down from its base and I keep staring at the payphone, waiting for it to ring. I don't know who will be on the other line, but I know it rings for me. It's loud obnoxious noise- it sings for me. A homeless man shuffles past, smelling of piss and exhaustion. There is a stain on his shirt that looks like Louisiana and I think of swamps and musty cars and driving with windows rolled down, smoking in the woods, walking barefoot on the hot concrete. But that was then- that was over there. Now my sneakers slap the hollow sounding underground of the subway floors and I catch the train seconds before the doors shut tight. A man across the aisle from me draws caricatures, bobbing his head to music I assume resides behind his eyes. We bob our heads together, catch eyes and smile. I notice an indentation in his left cheek--it flashes at me as he grins. There and then gone again. The train pulls up to my stop and as I stand, I catch a glimpse of myself on his page. I blush and look away, having been read, revealed, but as I leave I wonder what he saw, wonder how much I gave away.