In his grey suit and skinny, black tie, he thinks he sees a ghost that hasn't been born yet.
He makes a funny, sexy face. "Yeah, babe," and lights a cigarette, burying his reflection in the smoke, so he can feel less foreign. Out of all his routines, burying himself every morning is the most work.
He escapes his place, leaving behind that little hook mom used to hang her keys on, and stomps down the streets where city dwellers become cartoons the sun can't help but stick to.
Underground, the trains are packed with corpses and zombies, and he can't smoke, and he almost forgets he's breathing when a whirly girl with rainbow hair, rainbows everywhere, shoves into him.
"I hope not," he says.
She blinks funny at him, sorta confused, so he clarifies and explains to her that all bosses are old and ugly like his.
She says, "I work for myself," but, before he can apologize and tell her how rare she is, she says, "Gotcha! I'm really a Sandwich Artist on Fifth, and my boss is totally hideous. He keeps asking me out."
She cuts him off and gives him her number before she gets off, and he's proud of himself, thinks mom would be too. "Yeah, babe." Who's he kidding?
While the whirly girl with rainbow hair, rainbows everywhere, runs up the stairs, the train goes into economical hyper drive. He realizes he never got her name, she didn't write it, and there's no way to know if she's real until later tonight when the everyone is usually home.
14 September 2015