Boozey At Best

This evening I start my commute home quite a bit later than normal due to the time spent at the bar after work with my coworkers. It is an interesting phenomenon, the Wall Street subway station after 8 o'clock on a Friday night. There are two kinds of straggling professionals left waiting for the train-the one who has stayed one drink too long at happy hour like myself or the one who really is just getting out of work this late and is exhausted from his 80 hour work week. The expression on every single face I see is the same though- disheveled, tired and with shiny glass eyes. Another week in the books.


Once in the train I sit next to a man who smells like cigarettes and basement in slouchy elastic pants with a pile of scratch tickets, methodically rubbing down each one with a penny. I try to watch out of the corner of my eye to see if he is winning. The car lurches forward and I drop my library book on the floor. I bend down to pick it up but in my fogginess nearly fall over face first into the floor. Not would've of that been interesting?