by Amal Chatterjee
Across the city, where line 5 meets line 1, which intersects with line 4, which runs rings around the city, she clutches her bag close, you never know these days. The underground isn’t what it used to be. She half smiles to herself. Used to be? There were no trains, not for the likes of her. She took the bus, waited at the stop, come rain, come shine, come summer, come winter, jostling, hoping against hope most of the time that she'd get a seat.
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Copyright © 2017 by Amal Chatterjee