Inkling 2022 - Flipbook - Page 8
y
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ARMS
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i
t
S
by Erin Movold
My legs were numb and my eyes heavy. I
shifted in my hard leather seat once more,
in hopes of signalling to the older
gentlemen to my left that, though the train
was full, his shoulder certainly did not
need to be touching mine. The rather
gloomy day had produced a wet heat that
seeped through the cracks of the train car
and into the slimy meeting of our arms.
Every ten minutes or so, for no reason I
could think of, he would slowly peel his
arm off of my young skin and check his
pretentiously golden watch. Though my
muscles were tired and my stamina
dwindling, I was acutely aware when he
rejoined our arms every time he finished
admiring his time-telling waste of money.
On my right, the small woman whom I
hadn’t paid much attention to returned her
laptop to her bag and combed through her
dark hair. She didn’t seem to mind that her
elbow was about to knock me out or that
strands of her hair, in their frizziness and
fullness, were falling all over my lap. She
spoke through a headset in a language I
didn’t understand but her tone was furious
enough to make me feel lucky I wasn’t
talking to the frustratingly dull person on
the other side of her call. I tugged my skirt
down again, almost enough to protect my
thighs from the sticky seat, and in my pure
discomfort, let out a long-cultivated groan.
INKLING | PAGE 7
