The man in front of me moved his fingers cautiously, as if one wrong move would demolish his chances. I watched over his shoulder – a quiet observer.
He stopped to stare out the train window, Oakland rushing by, tents hanging under highway ramps and an orange light reflecting against a shipping container.
We hit a tunnel and the man got back to work, his fingers springing upwards after tapping each letter. He began to edit, adding the date of the event, then the location, the Museum of Modern Art (MOMA).
His last edit was his worst.
Totally fine if you can’t make it, he wrote.
His finger hovered over the “send” button, but he stopped to look back out the window. Maybe to wait for some sign that this was right, that whatever he had written would mesh with the ongoing narrative. Or would he hear silence?
He hovered over the “send” button again, then clicked his phone off, and placed it in his pocket, moving to get off the train.