surf
...you think you know me but you haven't got a clue.
some kind of solitude is measured out in you.
—The Beatles
She is surfing on a packed train in three inch heels with nothing to hold onto, hers arms too laden with the day's necessary belongings and a five pound new release just barely overdue to try to use them for balance. Sometimes she braces her body against the movement of the crowd that occurs when the train rolls into the station using nothing but her long thin fingers stretched to the ceiling of the car but the ceiling is too high today despite the heels. She's glad, though, a dull ache starting up in her fingers in sympathetic memory of the feeling of heavy bodies pressing against her, all their compounded weight stressing those few fingers. There's nothing left to do but breathe and she begins again, amazed that she had stopped breathing in the first place. She's halfway through an inbreath when she stops, noticing the smell of crowded bodies donning winter gear, much too warm from the surrounding body heat. The smell borders on distasteful although it hasn't quite made it there yet, but regardless the recycled air is noticeably thick. She returns to subconscious breathing, half breaths her habit, until the train door splits open in front of her and she makes her escape.