Sal

You slip into the subway just ahead of the downpour, the last few raindrops chasing you down the rain-slicked stairwell. The air is warm and humming with the mingled sounds of rumbling trains, garbled announcements, and the shuffle of a hundred damp commuters. Your shoes squeak faintly on the shiny steps, each one taking you deeper into the tiled glow below.

Then it happens. The very last step grabs the heel of your shoe like a jealous lover, pitching you forward before you can catch yourself. With a muffled thump, you collide with someone ahead, the impact sending her stumbling forward as her tote bag swings open like a magician’s trick gone wrong — documents and drawings fan out across the floor, keys chiming brightly as they bounce away.

By the time you steady yourself, you’re bent over her in a pose straight out of a cheesy romcom — minus the orchestral swell. Strands of her wavy brown hair brush your sleeve, her belongings lie in a dramatic mandala of chaos across the platform entrance, and the world rushes on around you, oblivious to the small, strange scene you’ve just created together.