The packed train hobbles along. Tom leans forward in his seat with his knees spread wide, one juts between two people who grasp the handrail, and his other strains against the knee of the lady seated beside him. This woman sighs repeatedly, offers her best scowl, and finally retaliates to the intrusion by kicking his paint-speckled work boot with her Asics walking shoes.

“Excuse me,” she says, and, with her leg, she pushes back against his.

“The hell with you, lady,” Tom says and then spreads his own legs out even more.

The twitch of his leg knocks her knees together, and she lets out a small gasp. “The nerve,” she says, and then with slightly less gumption, “there are other people on this subway, too.”

Nearby, James watches. His slender eyebrows prop up. He looks around for someone who might have noticed the altercation, who might do something about it.
No one else was watching. Or if they were, now they don’t care. They read. They stare at advertisements along the wall or play games on their cell phones. The woman squirms. James swallows a gulp of saliva, and says, with a solid, clear, tone, “Do you mind, sir? This isn’t your living room.”

Tom’s face remains stone and grit, but his eyes fire to the source of the agitation, this skinny guy in the black wool coat, leather gloves, his clear complexion, his hair feathered and tucked behind his large ears.

“I’m going to break your fucking nose.” Tom says.

And he does.