I thoughtlessly reseated myself in another row at Montgomery. The window-seat sitter, desperate to get off was merely an annoyance as I was planted firmly in the imaginary realm of reading. I felt the flapping of chicken wings against my cheek and willed it to die with the next stroke Gabrielle Hamilton took with her dull hatchet. Tasting the tough and rubbery bite at the hostile table with her father I became aware that I was both holding my breath and the train beat had skipped. The predictable influx and emptying of the car had stopped. In two blinks, I realized my predicament. I was under the bay, hurtling towards Oakland and away from my office.
That's what you get for reading on BART sometimes. I dove back to the scene as the train descended back under the bay. Not quite as taken into her world, holding firmly to the overhead strap and glancing up in search of signage, I disembarked at Embarcadero. Tonight, I will reembark on both journeys.
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