Subways?
[This was some sort of random idea that popped into my head when I was on the Skytrain. Don't ask..]
TITLE; ______
AUTHOR; Me. DUHHH
ETC; ETC; ETC;
"God damnit," I muttered, staggering to the ticket machine. The subway was always the worst part of the trip, everyone's faces all mono-tone and blank. Anti-social people taking up a two-person bench with just themselves, everyone staring out into nothingness with hooded eyes that didn't see half the stuff they thought they did. This was all part of the job I guess. Whatever job that may be. All of the homeless men inside the metro station asking for money were nothing compared to some of the people on the trains. Their stares at me, almost tearing me apart, just asking for someone to put them out of their misery. Yes, subways are the root of all depression.
Pacific Station's platform vibrated with the arrival of my train. I sighed, stepping onto the train after it's doors had opened with that automatic feature that makes it seem like your walking on the set of a sci-fi movie, much rather than onto a metro train full of people. I kept my hood over my raven black hair the whole duration, it's wild and untamed manner a sight that no hollow soul would like to witness on their commute. The rest of my trip from Pacific all the way to Broadway Station proved uneventful, I still watched in awe as average people seemed lifeless, the sounds of a crying child echoing in the hollow train and in their hollow ribcages.
Skulking my way expertly down alleyways and backstreets, I finally reached my desired location. A little ratty loft above nothing more than a basic grocer's store. I stopped inside the establishment and said a quick "Hello," to the little old lady behind the counter. Her eyes were soft and caring behind thick frames as she rung up my purchase. Stepping on the old wooden stairs, the rickety handrail more of a liability than an aid to me, I made my way up two flights of stairs before stopping. "Shit," I whispered hoarsely, my voice crackling out of disuse during the day, my hand shoving itself into my pocket for my keys. Momentarily, my fingers hooked onto the loop of jingling metal, and opened the door.
'One, two, three steps, turn right. Put down food, pivot, walk. One, two, three, four, five. Remove bag. Place bag. Drop keys. And, done.' I thought as my routine was lived out. I looked around the loft. In it's entirety, it was bigger than most. It had an ensuite bathroom, one bedroom, a sort of kitchen area and adjoining living room. All in all, it was, quaint. I landed softly onto the off-white couch, it's cream color still almost brand new, considering some of the lost cookie crumbs that had been trickling down the cushions over time. From there, I grabbed the remote, flicked on the TV, and proceeded to follow my daily schedule. The clock on the microwave reminded me I had to catch up on the dishes before Gerard got home. I decided that I needed to get them done, as a favor to both of us. Rising from my locale on the couch, I wandered into the kitchen area and turned on the tap.
Once I had finished cleaning the last of the water off the counter, I was ringing out the towel as I heard Gerard open the door. "Hi Honey, I'm home!" he called out playfully. I dropped the rag onto the now-dry counter and ran into his open arms. "Gee baby!" I shrieked. "How was work?" I asked as he kissed the top of my head. "Shitty, as usual. Everyone who came in was looking for classics, no one reads anything new these days," he sighed, placing his backpack onto the floor. A thud as it hit the hardwood told me he had brought home more books. I laughed. "You know," I said, nudging the back with my foot. "We're gonna have to get another bookshelf at this rate. You and your books." Gerard laughed, ruffling my hair. "Frankie, they give me inspiration. Remember? I read that one about the two orphan kids and I painted that piece over there," he explained, pointing to a large framed canvas coated in paint. Beautiful work, it was two little kids clinging to each other as they stood in a dark alley, with all these red demons attacking them from the borders of the golden frame. I loved it, and demanded we hang it up to be admired.
As I was reflecting back on the painting, Gerard turned to me and giggled. "What?" I asked. He turned from my bag on the counter and pulled out a box of condoms, lube and a bottle of wine. "Had something in mind, did we?" he asked. "Hey! Don't go through my stuff! And what makes you think that's for you?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. Gerard gasped in mock surprise. "Your seeing someone else!?" I latched onto his torso in a death-grip tight hug. "Your the only one for me."