The Subway Home

I stand zombie-like against the wall of the subway platform.

Ten feet away, the pay phone rings. I can't remember the last time I heard an un-ironic, old-fashioned phone ring. I can't remember the last time I saw anyone using a pay phone. I imagine myself walking over and picking up the yellow receiver. Hello? It will be a wrong number or a prank. I imagine answering it, but I know I won't; I'm not that curious.

My head has that spinning feeling from too much input over the day, too much stress, too much thought. I wonder if I should get up early tomorrow and use the elliptical machine we bought impulsively this weekend.

The train pulls in the station and I see coats mashed against the plexi. As the passengers file off, the train elevates with the lessened weight of each person emerging. Its like a clown car.
I am so tired, I feel like I'm having a nervous breakdown. Why can't I manage all my tasks? Why can't I prioritize? I need more energy.

Almost home, one more stop, and dreading the nine-minute walk from the station to home.