She sat next to the window (though in the Washington Metro, that's hardly a feature), wearing make-up and Vans, her work shoes stuck in a bag at her feet. She was receiving texts in large print, too large for her neighbor to miss. One glance yielded the word "terrible," another the word "DOGE," another "they'll just replace us." I spotted the word "cruel." She gave me side-eye when I confessed I'd noticed that she was a federal worker in distress. I went back to staring out the window, when there was a rusty bridge to witness, and she to her device. As we approached my stop, she said, "I don't think anyone cares." I told her I'd been to protests in Hawai`i, and she thanked me, saying that they were too scared to demonstrate. I asked her what agency she's in, and she told me. Not one I'd expected to be vandalized. There were ironies there. After a day of tourism, I and my family got off the train, headed to our car. She stayed on, heading elsewhere in northern Virginia.
I don't know if I should write these any more, but my writer's gift for vague should help me now.
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