Originally published in Verbicide issue #8

There must be a written rule somewhere: what you want never comes, but as soon as it does you don’t want it anymore or have forgotten about your want for it. At least that’s the rule when you’re waiting for the subway. Some prick probably did a study on that once. The wanting, not the waiting. The subway eventually squeals into the station anyway, sounding like a pilled-up pig.

When I climb up into the train car, I have to push my way past the people. Most of them get to the stop of stairs and stand there like an idiot. One guy has the audacity to just stand, staring straight ahead. He’s taking up the entire aisle way, so I decide to glare at him, not a foot away, until he notices my displeasure and moves aside, but he continues to stare straight ahead. I push him over with the heel of my hand, aimed for the center of his chest, and he falls flat on his back. As I stomp past him, annoyed, I notice that instead of seeking revenge he stands up and continues to stare straight ahead. A regular psycho, I think to myself, and take my place in the back of the train.

There are ten minutes left until my stop. After removing my gloves, I decide to spend the time reading over people’s shoulders. One woman is reading an article about a business that invites its clients to destroy a room for the small price of $200. Imagine paying somebody to let you destroy something, why not just destroy it yourself? The answer may have lied within the article, but the reading woman turns her back as soon as she notices that I, too, am taking enjoyment from the piece. Some people are so selfish.

Someone is staring at me, by the way. Not directly at me, but staring at my reflection. I noticed it as soon as I got on the train. She’s pretty, too. I first noticed her when I was checking to see if the snowfall had begun. Sometimes when I look up she’s staring through me, without blinking. Other times she is looking at me lovingly. I know that she wants me to talk to her. But I can’t give her that satisfaction. We’re almost at my stop, anyway.

As I get off the train, my areas of exposed skin immediately turn red due to the cold. My ribs ache and I wish it were summertime. I want to sweat. And in the sweaty summertime I wish it were the windy winter. My eyes water, blurring my vision. I’m walking toward my car. I can feel rage boiling inside of me, because I can’t keep all of my layers of clothing together. As I reach my car, an old Toyota wedged against a snow bank, I reach into my back pocket for my keys. They’re always there, but today they aren’t. I go through the front pockets to no avail, and continually re-check my back pocket where the keys always are. I retrace my steps to the subway, running on the black ice, slipping occasionally without falling. I’m so livid I want to bend the subway rails when I admit the keys are gone. There is nobody around to blame. I sprint to my car, with the longest strides I’ve ever taken. In one slow and forceful motion I smash the car’s passenger window with my elbow. It breaks like a baseball had hit it. With a black boot I kick the rest of it in. I can’t stop there. Water from my eyes freezes on my cheeks and my nose runs as I kick divots into the exterior of the shitbox. I wish I could pick it up and chuck it onto the train tracks. If only it were that easy for total demolition, I would feel satisfied.