The train was on time. She got a seat by the window. She had about forty minutes before her stop. She had a coffee and a book, neither of which she had started yet. The man in the seat in front of her was reading on his phone; she watched the back of his head for several stops without knowing she was watching. The train lurched at the bridge and the coffee sloshed but did not spill. It had been eleven days. There was a weight in her chest and there was no part of the morning — the river going past, the brake squeal, the other commuters getting on and off — that reached through it. She got off at her stop. She walked to the office. She was a functional shape doing functional-shape things.
