I come to in the middle of my morning train ride, someone’s elbow jutting against the small of my back. Someone’s sweaty forearm brushes against my forehead, reaching for the hand rail. I try to wipe my brow, but my right hand is stuck between someone’s backpack and someone’s beer gut. My left hand is on the wrong pocket, my phone is on the right. I feel it vibrate, and I think about who it could be–certainly not my boss, whose favorite time to call is in the wee hours of the morning; maybe it’s Baker Boy, who’s always inviting me to their place. He says his mother takes sleeping pills, so everything’s going to be fine. The train rumbles (in approval? disagreement?) and I try to summon the weekend back in my head–burritos with my best friends, Insidious 2 with my sister, the late-night Downton Abbey marathon. I look at everyone’s napes around me, at all the hair, at all the pudgy noses. I sigh, but nobody hears it, not even me. My own breath is lost among my thoughts, and the nearby chatter about the country’s latest beauty queen.