Caravellum

A child, old enough to know what a rebel is but young enough to wear a hoodie proclaiming she is one, lies across the priority seats. I’m at a loss. There are other seats available, including the priority seats across the aisle. Nobody is standing. Her disregard for etiquette is not an inconvenience. I spend a moment reconsidering why it annoys me. Perhaps I should also think about which rules I’m not questioning. Perhaps my relationship with authority isn’t the healthiest, and I show unwarranted fealty to a social contract that pays little compensation. I begrudgingly accept that she has proven me wrong, and she is a rebel indeed.

The train slides forward from the station. A blaring noise emerges from the tinny speakers of her phone. Her foot taps against the handrail. I re-evaluate, in the gaps of thought I can manage through the cacophony. She is an annoyance, and nothing more. I put aside my moment of wavering commitment and pray my aberrance goes unnoticed. The social contract is reinforced. I’m relieved to see her disembark at the next station, and for my morning to be restored.