Its a few minutes before 10 AM on Sunday. I am writing this on the NJT Trenton local, using the laptop purchased for me by Rock, Paper, Scissors, Inc. The laptop has a wide, bright screen. It can spin CD-ROM's at 36 times their regular speed. In the seat across, a woman is sobbing, choking and heaving. She is young and pretty, with red hair.

Her friend or boyfriend looks like me, tall and overweight, with brown hair. His weight hangs off him differently. I have huge bones, ridiculous bones. In X-rays, my ankles look like oak branches. His shoulders are more narrow. He is trying to comfort her, but not making much progress; he is not even rubbing her back in the way that people usually do with public weepers.

Now, she has stopped, and I can begin to write.