David Fishkind

He reached for the handrail, bracing his way down to the office. He picked up some of the books and flipped through, set them down in stacks. Grinning, he stretched his legs under the table. First he went to the bathroom, then the break room, drinking two glasses of water, pursing his lips to acknowledge a stranger on his way back to the bathroom. He scrolled through Facebook without reading, clicking on a link, which accused a sound clip sampled in a song of being racist. Coat on, he blinked idly, watching the clock turn to half past, signed out and, skipping stairs, bounded to the subway, unaware of when or why he had begun playing the song that blared in his earbuds and washed away the noise of those around him, falling into him on the train as they lost balance at turns back over the bridge and underground, and shadowing a headache, which had revealed itself in the cough that rang, he could only imagine, wet and gravelly, into the arm of his coat. The dark faces he looked past, not approaching the apartment, but the car, which had to be moved for street cleaning. It was parked where he’d left it, and, that day, much like each other day, he was relieved and amazed to register, as far as his faculties would allow him, no ticket, nor damage, to the grim sedan.