The Commute

THE subway thunders underfoot, the vibrations shaking the commuter’s bags. Keys jingle together from within pockets, the sharp noise clashing with the rumbling of a rolling Buckfast bottle along the floor. Occasionally, it crashes into the metal underneath the carriage’s course seats. A sticky mess trails behind the green bottle as the stench of alcohol assaults the nose, a reminder of the revellers from the night before.

Music pounds through the headphones of a nearby commuter, the bass barely audible above the din of the roaring subway as it speeds through the underground. Lights flicker in the tunnels, bright flashes that alight behind the passengers crammed into the transport like sardines in a tin, faces buried in phones. It is still dark down here, despite the early hour.

The subway stumbles to halt as people rise sluggishly. A sea of brightly coloured coffee cups are clutched in their hands, but the dark, bitter liquid doesn’t wash away the sour taste that lingers on tired tongues.


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