Michael

He’s sitting up a few rows from me, facing the opposite direction, so I can only see him at an angle, over his left shoulder. He’s wearing a flat brimmed, brand-name baseball cap, turned slightly to one side. The panels, crown, and bowl of the cap are molded to his head shape, and worn from frequency of use, but clean from his care for the object. Spilling out from just under the hat’s brim is a mess of brown hair, winged out over his ears because he’s always had a popular reception wearing his hair like that, since high school. I imagine he played baseball back then, not only from the hat, but to account for the musculature of his forearms, and lack thereof in his calves. I can see his left leg clearly, covered by jeans form-fitted to its slight curves. His shoes, his jacket, his hat all bear the same prominent brand logo, as though he was sponsored. Perhaps he is. But I doubt this, as he is typing with meaty fingers on a laptop open to emails, and now a word processor, and now several different web pages. I can’t see what the subject of his searches are, nor do I wish to entirely invade his privacy, but he is surely a student, juggling emails with fellow students and professors, writing his essay due this weekend. We wouldn’t be friends, he and I, but I wish him luck as he packs his bag and exits at his stop.