The 42 Line

The bus was sweating.

She sat across from me, peeling a shell—

the sound was like paper tearing,

small and dry and rhythmic.

The smell of sulfur filled the space between us.

It was gross, really, but also—

it felt like she was in her own kitchen.

She had a receipt folded on her knee

with a little mound of salt in the center.

She’d dip the white curve of the egg

into the crystals and eat.

I watched her until my stop went past.

I watched the way she licked her thumb.

I forgot I was a stranger. I forgot I had a job.