LITTLE BOXES

by Ross Sharp

I am on the train and there are three people opposite, each one staring down at their screen, their screens on little boxes.

One plumpish young man, with cheeks like over-stuffed nectarines, is furiously thumbing at his little box, a look of impatience clouding his face. A woman two seats across rests her head in one hand, her elbow propped on a railing, her thumb occasionally brushing at the screen, then hovering above it a while, then brushing it again, a tiny dancer on a tiny rink. Next to her is a man with a larger screen, holding it close to his face, closer, his other hand tapping idly at his headphone.

A woman gets on at the next station and she takes her seat with these three, and then she pulls her tiny box from her bag, and then she looks at it, and then she is gone, blessings of the state, blessings of the masses, let us be thankful we have commerce, take four red capsules, in ten minutes take two more, help is on the way.

It’s raining outside.

I watch it rain.

They never look up.

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Photo via Dangerous Minds

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