On the way

She's a student, most likely.

Teal backpack straps line her beige parka, a cozy red sweatshirt peaking through.

Turqoise joggers melt into the laces on her sneakers.

Thin strands are rolled into a loose bun a top her head, swaying back and forth to the rhythym of the subway, another entity in itself, dancing along.

Union - up, quick! Her smudged eyeliner perks up, wide eyes alert and ready to disembark.

She snaps to her feet, here we go, they seem to say.

Now her pants are made of denim, a sturdy black backpack resting at the knees.

He too rests his lids, a charcoal beanie obscuring anything that lies above. Unlike her, he is going home from the 9-5.

His chin gives out, falling forward into the flow of colours that replace his neck. He trickles down slowly, takes a substantial inhale and relocates to the plastic divider. Down, down, down again. His Columbia jacket consumes him, working alongside the navy mittens to fight the bitter cold that lies in the near future.

He inflates like a balloon, then rapidly releases remaining air and returns downwards.

A gloves come off, allowing for a light scratch. His fingers look frail and delicate: the thumb rests on top, preparing for war. Or perphaps he is protecting the others? A push of flesh asserts this.